


Clipped Wings for an Exiled King

by WanderingAlice



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alice shouldn't write in the car, Bilbo is a badass, Dragon!Bilbo, Writer's Block
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-15
Updated: 2015-05-12
Packaged: 2018-03-13 01:50:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 26,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3363308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long ago, so long that even the elves with their long memories have only hazy recollections of it, there were dragons. I do not speak of the worms of Morgoth, those poor twisted creatures he made in mockery of Iluvatar's great warriors, no, but of a race of beings that answered to the whims of the Valar, made to guard that which they most cherished. These were great and noble beasts, who knew the value of honor and love, peaceful when possible, deadly when necessary. But they were not prepared for Melkor and his Uruloki. Glaurung came, he and his kin, and in a great battle that lay waste to the green land that had been the home of the dragons, he slaughtered them all. Well, all but one, the youngest, only two hundred years old, who watched his family slaughtered from a hidden cave.</p>
<p>Fast forward a couple ages. Bilbo is a dragon. Or, well, he <i>was</i>. He hasn't properly been one in a very long time, not since Smaug and the other Worms of Morgoth killed his family. This is the story of how he regains himself, and gets a new family in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clipped Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written all week that isn't totally crap. I have the worst case of writer's block, and it won't go away. This thing happened in the car on yet another ride from the city to my site, and since it's not terrible, I'm going to post it in the hopes that this will kick me out of whatever slump I'm in. Fair warning, it was written on my iPad, which has been through a lot in recent days (long story) and may make very odd errors in autocorrect.
> 
> I know this idea has been done a lot recently, so I'm hoping y'all like this rendition of dragon!Bilbo. If my writer's block goes away, I'll have the conclusion to this up by the end of the week, along with another chapter of both CotW and my MCU/Captain America Fic. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Thank you so much for reading!

Long ago, so long that even the elves with their long memories have only hazy recollections of it, there were dragons. I do not speak of the worms of Morgoth, those poor twisted creatures he made in mockery of Iluvatar's great warriors, no, but of a race of beings that answered to the whims of the Valar, made to guard that which they most cherished. These were great and noble beasts, who knew the value of honor and love, peaceful when possible, deadly when necessary. But they were not prepared for Melkor and his Uruloki. Glaurung came, he and his kin, and in a great battle that lay waste to the green land that had been the home of the dragons, he slaughtered them all. Well, all but one, the youngest, only two hundred years old, who watched his family slaughtered from a hidden cave.

It was Olorin who found him, after that awful battle, and it was Olorin who brought the dragonling to Middle-Earth an age later, when he saw that even the light of the undying lands could not heal the scars on his soul. There, he left him under the care of the hobbits, who he knew to be good and kind, and whose love of comfort and joy would do more to heal the young dragon than even the Valar, who only served to remind him of what he had lost. Our story begins many years later, with that selfsame young dragon, and the adventure that finally healed the scars on his soul. 

****

I. Clipped Wings

Bilbo Baggins was a dragon. Or, well, he used to be. He hadn't been a proper dragon in a very, _very_ long time. All but raised by hobbits, he had taken their form and name, and forgotten what it was to fly. He had no use for wings, not in his comfortable hole on Bagshot Row, nor the hard armor of his scales (that had not saved his family), and only passing use for the fire that lived within his chest. It was useful to start a fire, or light his pipe when he couldn't find a match, and the young hobbits loved his smoke rings, but no more. His only really dragonish trait was a tendency towards hoarding- well, he would call it _collecting_. And he primarily collected only one thing- stories. 

The hobbits themselves had long forgotten just what Bilbo was. They only knew him as Mister Baggins, the somewhat odd, but mostly respectable hobbit that lived in Bag End. Nobody could really remember how old he was, and even the oldest gaffer couldn't remember a time where they didn't see him sitting outside in his garden, blowing smoke rings into the sky. But he was theirs, and that was all that mattered. The grey wizard would sometimes come by to check on him, and they would whisper amongst themselves that it was wizard business, though they didn't quite believe their Baggins was a wizard. Nor would they have believed the truth, if you told them. And for Bilbo, that was fine. He lived in comfort, with his books and his maps, and did his best not to think of a time before he had settled in the shire. Of a time when once he had soared free in the skies of Valinor. That all changed one day, with the arrival of Gandalf. 

Bilbo felt him coming, when he stepped over the border of the Shire, and hurried to put the kettle on. He owed his life to the wizard, and, beyond that, he was quite fond of him. He enjoyed Gandalf's visits, though they always clashed on whether or not he was ready to leave the Shire and rejoin the greater world. It was an old argument, and one that would probably never be resolved. 

By the time Gandalf knocked on his door, Bilbo had brewed tea for them both, and set out a nice second breakfast. If it was a little bigger than normal, well, he worried that Gandalf didn't eat enough, out there in his Wanderings. Maiar or no, he needed to sustain his mortal body. 

A knock on the door broke through Bilbo's musings, and he hurried to answer it with a cheery "Good morning!" 

Gandalf frowned at him from the doorstep. "What do you mean? Do you mean to wish me a good morning, or do you mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not? Or, perhaps you mean to say that you feel good on this particular morning. Or are you simply stating that this is a morning to be good on?” 

"All of them at once!" Bilbo declared, as it was an old joke between them. The wizard smiled then, and ducked through the door. "Come in, come in," Bilbo said, "I've just laid out second breakfast. Won't you join me?" 

"It is good to see you, my friend," Gandalf said, settling himself at Bilbo's small table. "I trust you have been well?" 

They made polite small talk as they ate, the wizard talking about the things he had seen, Bilbo catching him up on the news of the Shire. Despite it being such a small place, there was quite a lot to be said- children who had been born, weddings Bilbo had attended, couples who were courting, the doings of the young Baggins "cousins" who often came to have Bilbo tell them stories, disputes that had been settled, or were still raging, and other small doings of the people around them. In fact, it was past luncheon and almost time for tea when Gandalf finally got around to his reason for coming. 

"I'm looking for someone to share in an adventure," he announced, and the knowing look in his eyes told Bilbo exactly who he planned to have join him. 

"No," Bilbo said, "absolutely _not_. I'm quite happy where I am, thank you. If you want an adventurer, why not try Bree?" 

"Because," Gandalf explained patiently, "no one in Bree is also a dragon." 

Bilbo sighed. "I'm not a dragon, Gandalf. I haven't been one for a long time." 

"Nonsense," he wizard snapped. "You are as much a dragon as you ever were, whether you choose to wear the body you were given or the skin of a hobbit. You cannot change what you are." 

"I can try," the hobbit retorted. "And what good would a dragon be on an adventure, anyway? Everyone would just try to kill me anyway. All the dragons left are evil, servants of the enemy. Nobody remembers there used to be others. I'd probably get an arrow in the heart the minute I showed my true form." 

"Even if you were to fight one of those evil dragons?" Gandalf asked, and Bilbo paled, remembering the screams of the last dragon battle he had witnessed. 

"No," he said again. "No, not a chance. Now, I- I have an obligation I must see to. Please excuse me." And, without even cleaning up or offering to let Gandalf stay the night, Bilbo turned and all but ran out his door. He spent the rest of the day with his neighbors, the Gamgees, who were kind-hearted hobbits, and never said anything about 'adventure'. 

When he returned to his hole, Bilbo opened the door cautiously, expecting Gandalf to be there, ready to ambush him and start talking about dragonslaying, again. But no one was there, not in the dining room, or the sitting room, or even the bedrooms. Bilbo shoved down a slight feeling of disappointment, and decided it really was for the best, he didn't want an adventure, at all. It just wasn't like Gandalf to give in so easily, the last time he had come talking about adventure, the , the debate has raged for days. Bilbo should have known it wasn't over. 

The first knock came as he was starting dinner that night, and he looked up, nostrils flaring as an unfamiliar scent met his sensitive nose. Not someone he knew, not even a hobbit. He sniffed again, and... Hm. Someone who had been in recent contact with Gandalf. Not a human, the smell was too much like stone; not a wizard, there was no hint of Valinor on them. Bilbo opened the door and came face to face with... Taller than a hobbit, not as tall as a man, corded muscles, long beard and hair (save for the bald top of the head) and tattoos. A dwarf, he had to be. Bilbo blinked, momentarily wrong-footed. He'd never met a dwarf before, they rarely came through the shire, and Bilbo hadn't left it since the hobbits settled there. 

"Dwalin, at your service," the dwarf sketched a small bow. 

Bilbo automatically returned it, for politeness sake. "Bilbo Baggins, at yours." 

"Well, where is it, laddie?" Dwalin asked, when Bilbo let him in, the hobbit still trying to understand why there was a dwarf in his hole. 

"Where's what?" 

"Supper. He said there'd be food, and lots of it." The dwarf frowned at him, probably wondering if he was a simpleton. Something clicked in Bilbo's mind. 

"Gandalf," he muttered under his breath. 

"Sorry?" the dwarf asked, not catching what he'd said. 

"No, nothing, sorry. Right this way, Mister Dwalin." Bilbo led the dwarf into the dining room, and let him start on Bilbo's own dinner while the hobbit went about preparing more food. If he knew Gandalf, and he thought he did, there would be more dwarves soon enough. And, yes, there was the door. Bilbo answered it, and met a white-haired dwarf who gave his name as Balin and greeted Dwalin as a brother. Soon after that, he opened the door to two younger dwarves who bounced into the house, dropping their weapons into Bilbo's hands. Bilbo let the weapons fall to the side, horrified by the feel of steel in his hands, and went back to fixing a proper meal. 

More dwarves came, filling his hole with sound and laughter, and before he knew it, Bilbo was drawn in to their story- for it was, as Gandalf well knew, stories that Bilbo hoarded, driven by the innate need of dragon-kind to hold tight to _something._ And what a story it was. Madness, riches, and danger. A people driven from their home, desperate to take it back nearly seventeen decades after its loss. He felt the need to see how it ended, to know beyond a shadow of a doubt the final chapter of this tale. It was a pull that was hard to ignore, though he was still determined not to leave the Shire. 

Then one of the dwarves mentioned the name of the dragon that had driven them from their home. 

"I'm sorry, did you say _Smaug_?" Bilbo asked, feeling the blood drain from his face and praying he had misheard. 

"Aye laddie," Balin told him, "Smaug the Terrible, last of the great fire-drakes." 

"Not the last," Bilbo murmured, though he wasn't aware of what he was saying. He was seeing again a memory from ages past, of the great red terror that had broken from the attacking formation of Uruloki, the one that had charged, flaming, into Bilbo's cave, and pulled his elder brother from his hiding spot. Bilbo did not register the concern of the dwarves, or Gandalf calling his name, his ears heard only the screams of his dying kin as one by one Smaug killed them. He stood frozen, hands clutching the edge of the table, while memories he had long buried forced themselves across his mind. _This_ was why Gandalf wanted him on the journey. To kill Smaug, to avenge his kin. It was... Not a thought Bilbo had ever entertained. Until now. 

"Master Baggins?" A stern face thrust itself in front of his eyes, firm hands on his shoulders dragging him back to the present. "Master Baggins, are you alright?" 

Bilbo looked up into the deep blue eyes of Thorin Oakenshield, and nodded. "You need a burglar, yes? You'll be wanting me, then. You need someone with experience on this venture." He didn't see the easing of Gandalf's shoulders, or the relief on the other dwarve's faces. No, all he could see beyond a sea of red were the determined blue eyes of the dwarven king. 

They set out at dawn. Or, well, they tried to. But first they got hung up packing, and then none of the ponies would let Bilbo on them- he eventually had to go and get a pony from the Hobbiton stables, one that was used to the scent of dragon. The dwarves muttered amongst themselves about that, wondering why their steeds would refuse a rider, but decided in the end they just weren't used to the smell of hobbit. They got on the road around ten, and after one disasterous "shortcut" Thorin tried to lead them on, they made good time. 

That night, when they had made camp, some of the younger dwarves crowded around Bilbo. He was already learning their individual scents, so he could easily pick out Fili and Kili at his back, and Ori beside him. Bofur sat to his other side, and across the fire, Bilbo could see Thorin and the others talking quietly together. 

"So, Bilbo, we were wondering," Kili began, "why'd you come with us?" 

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked, turning to frown at the boy. Hadn't they asked him to come? 

"Begging your pardon, but, it's just, at first we thought you weren't interested. We thought we were going to have to find another burglar," Bofur explained. "We wanted to know what changed your mind." 

"Ah." Bilbo should have expected that, considering how vocal he'd been in telling Gandalf _no_. "Well, I didn't know you were going after Smaug, exactly, did I? Though I suppose I should have guessed when Gandalf asked me about dragons. That's what changed my mind." 

"But why?" Kili demanded. "Why should it make a difference which dragon we're going up against?" 

Bilbo shifted. How to explain, without giving his secret away? They couldn't know he was a dragon, not yet. Their hatred of Smaug was such that they'd kill Bilbo at the sight of the first amber scale. "Well, I, ah... I have a rather personal reason to want that worm dead." He stared into the fire, hearing again the cries of his family, seeing not flames, but the bloody rocks of his homeland. The night before, he had dreamed of that day, the terror and horror waking afresh in his mind, as fresh as if it had happened only days ago. 

"What reason?" Kili asked, and received a smack on the head from Fili. 

"He doesn't have to tell us if he doesn't want to," the elder prince said. "It's okay Bilbo. We're sorry we asked." 

"No, it's alright," Bilbo told them, "it's your right to want to know. After all, you don't know me. It's just... Not something I like to talk about." 

"We understand," Bofur laid a comforting hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "It's alright if you don't want to tell us." 

Bilbo shook his head. "No, no, I want to tell you. It's..." He took a deep breath, and spoke in a rush, before the words could stick in his throat."Smaug killed my family. Years ago, now. I was... Very young. Gandalf found me, hiding in the ruins of my home, and brought me to the Shire. So now, well, I guess this is my chance to avenge them, my mother, my father.... And my brother." His brother, who had been torn apart before his eyes. Bilbo fell silent then, staring into the fire. He didn't see Thorin's eyes on him from across the flames. 

"Oh, Bilbo, I'm sorry. I didn't know," Kili hugged him from behind. "We'll help you avenge your family. Don't worry." 

Bilbo smiled sadly at him, reaching up to pat the hand on his shoulder. "Thank you, Kili. It's quite alright. It's been a very long time now, I guess just hearing about Smaug again after all this time brought the memories back. I'll be fine. And I won't let you down, I promise." 

"We know you won't," Bofur assures him. Now," he sat forward and clapped his hands, trying to break the somber mood. "How about a story? Who has a good one?" 

That night started a tradition of story-telling around the campfire at night, where they all gathered and shared memories from their pasts, or stories that they had learned as children, or even some stories that were made up on the spot. Bilbo learned a lot about his companions, from how Thorin got the title Oakenshield, to how often Ori would sneak off to the libraries when his brothers were busy. Bilbo even contributed some stories, tales from the Shire, or history he remembered. Little things, but his companions (all save Thorin, who seemed to frown at him all the time,) seemed to appreciate them. Bilbo began to truly feel part of the company, welcomed by all but their leader, who Bilbo thought might regret his coming. Little by little he started to trust them. And then, one night, he told them the story of the fall of the dragons. 

The theme for the night had been stories about dragon-slaying, and Bilbo was getting rather tired of hearing about evil dragons, so he sat forward and asked if they wanted to hear a tale about the fall of the Dragons of Eru. It was, he said, a tale he had learned as a small child, and Gandalf could verify its authenticity. 

"I've never heard of the Dragons of Eru," Dwalin complained, frowning at Bilbo. "I'm supposed to believe there are good dragons now too?" 

"Of course you wouldn't have heard of them," Gandalf chided. "It's a tale only few remember now, and it does not concern your people, for it happened long before your ancestors first thought to dig for ore. I expect only a few beside myself now remember the full tale. And you do not need to believe there are good dragons, for there is only one left in all of Arda." 

"I wouldn't say _good_ exactly. Just, not evil," Bilbo hedged, suddenly regretting offering to tell his story. What if they didn't believe him? 

Gandalf laughed. "My dear Bilbo, I have seldom met anyone with a better heart. He is a force for good in this world, if he would just get off his rump and take an interest." 

"Yes, well," Bilbo levered a look at Gandalf that could peel paint. "That is far beyond the point of _this_ story. As I was saying, the Dragons of Eru lived just outside of Valinor, doing the bidding of Eru and guarding the Valar from the evil he had felt enter his song. They served well and faithfully for many years, until Morgoth was freed and turned his mind to destroying the Two Trees. The Dragons of Eru were fearsome guardians for the trees, and at first he could not get past them. He tried, and was pushed back many times, suffering grievous wounds each time. And with every drop of his blood that spilled, he came to hate the dragons more. 

"At last, he came up with a devious plan. If he could not get past the dragons, he would destroy them utterly. He fashioned his own mockery of the Dragons of Eru, his great Uruloki which have so plagued the world ever since. Glaurung there was, and Ancalagon, and _Smaug_ " 

The dwarves hissed at the name, and some spat on the ground. Kili leaned forward, now more interested in the story, since it had their great enemy in it. The others watched the fire, or Bilbo, or the night beyond the camp, but they were listening. Bilbo closed his eyes, and continued the tale. 

"The Dragons of Eru knew nothing of this. They remained in Valinor, in the land surrounding the Trees, and thought at last they had driven the enemy away. So long was he gone that they began to relax, to return to the pursuits of leisure, the great works of art or magic, story telling, and caring for their young. In this time a child was born- a great occasion, for children were rare and it was often dangerous for a mother to carry the child, and sometimes she did not live to see the babe. But this mother lived, and though he almost died at birth, so did her second son. She named him Brona, which means _survivor_ , and there was great joy. For a time. 

"But a shadow began to fall on the land. A shadow Brona was sheltered from. Even his elder brother was taught to fight, to prepare for the evil they all could feel coming, but Brona had less than two centuries, and dragons do not reach maturity until they have put four thousand years behind them. He was taught to hide from danger, shown where to go, should the worst happen, so that he would survive. He did not understand the danger, not even when dragons began to go missing. 

"At first it was those that lived far away, out on the edges of their country. But soon any who strayed from the heart of the land vanished, and did not return. Then the dragons once again prepared for war with the enemy. 

"They came at night, hiding in the shadows on silent wings, and the first fell to their fire before anyone knew they were upon them. The night turned red with flame, and with blood. Brona's mother hid her sons in their cave and stood guard before it. For a time, they were overlooked. And then, one shape separated from the hoard, a great red fire-drake with cruel claws and sharp fangs. He fell on the dragon mother, and there, before the eyes of her sons, he tore out her throat. Then he turned his evil golden eyes on the children, and he laughed. Brona's brother told him to run, deeper into the cave, into the hidden sanctuary where he would be safe from Smaug and his kin. Then he went forth and challenged Smaug. Before Brona's eyes, his brother was slain, and when Smaug was done painting the ground with the young dragon's blood, he looked for another victim. But Brona was too well hidden, and he knew the art of passing unseen. The dragon-child faded back into his cave, to his hiding place, and tried to block out the screams as his kin were slaughtered. 

"He did not know how long he stayed there, even when all was silent, hoping that someone had survived, and would come to find him. It was a very long time before he ventured out, and what he found..." Bilbo stopped, because this... This was the part that featured in his worst nightmares. Emerging from his cave to see the ground littered with the remains of his kin, the grass turned rusted red with dried blood. Finding his mother's bones, and his brothers, and nearby, his father, his aunts and uncles and friends. All dead. It had hurt too much for tears. It _still_ hurt too much for tears. 

"It was a long time after that that the Maia Olorin came, and found him there," Gandalf picked up the thread of the story from there, giving his Maiar name, perhaps so that the dwarves did not suspect the connection between the dragon-child Brona, and the hobbit Bilbo. "How he had survived, the Maiar did not know. But there he was, uninjured, at least in body. He brought the dragon-child to the Valar, where he told the story of the death of his kin. But he could not remain there- there was too much pain for him in Valinor. So he was brought to Middle-Earth, where he dwells, hidden, until such time as the world has need of him." 

Silence followed the story, as the dwarves digested the new information. And then Gandalf was barraged with questions. What were these "good dragons" like? What happened to Brona? What did the dragons guard? Why couldn't they beat the dragons of Morgoth? Why doesn't anyone remember them? Where did the dragon-child go? Where was he hiding? And, the question that made Bilbo frown and snap out of his painful reverie- why didn't he help them? 

"Maybe he just wants to be left alone," he snapped at Kili, the one who had asked the question. "Maybe he doesn't want to see any more death." 

"But it's been _thousands_ of years," the young prince protested. "Surely he's grown powerful since then. Why wouldn't he be able to help us? Smaug is just one dragon, and there are fourteen of us. With a dragon of our own, we could easily take back the mountain!" 

"Or maybe Smaug would kill him, and then kill all of you, for daring to associate with one of the Dragons of Eru. Besides. No one but the one who brought him to Middle-Earth knows where he is now." 

The dwarves settled down after that, though Bilbo noticed Thorin giving him a strange look. After a time, the king came to sit next to him. 

"You were very passionate in your defense of the dragon," he said, the low rumble of his voice sending a pleasant shiver through Bilbo despite the topic. "Why should we not seek him out? It would aid us much, to have a dragon on our side." 

"Because I think, after everything he went through, he deserves some peace. Don't tell me you'd force a survivor from Smaug's attack on Erebor to come on this mad quest if they weren't willing, because I won't believe it." 

"That was far more recent," Thorin told him. 

"For you," Bilbo said bluntly. "But you measure your life in a span of two to three hundred years. Dragons live for almost ten _thousand_. Maybe, like me, he can still hear the screams of his brother in his dreams." 

Thorin stared at him for a moment, before resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. "I am sorry, Master Baggins. I forget, you, too, have your own sorrows to be laid at Smaug's feet. Perhaps we should not have dragged you from your safe and comfortable hole." 

Bilbo snorted. For sure, Thorin hadn't made him feel welcome, but saying they shouldn't have brought him, when the dwarf-king's signature was also on that contract, validating it, well, that was just plain rude. "Now listen here, Thorin Oakenshield. I know you don't think I'm right for this task. But I tell you, if I didn't want to come, I would have stayed at home. No one dragged me anywhere. And I'd thank you to remember that I have experience with dragons, something none of the rest of this company have. So whatever your personal feelings against me, I'm the best man you could have gotten for your "lucky number," and that's a fact." With that, he stood up and stormed off, leaving a flabbergasted Thorin in his wake. 

The next morning, Bilbo approached his companions hesitantly, afraid his outburst had earned him their reproach, but no one said anything. After an awkward first hour, where he kept worrying about it, Bilbo relaxed, and things went back to normal. At least until he smelled the trolls. 

They were setting up camp in a long-abandoned farmhouse when his sensitive nose caught the scent, and he went looking for Gandalf, only to find the wizard had disappeared. Unwilling to face Thorin after the previous night, Bilbo decided to investigate on his own, under the guise of taking a meal to the princes, who were guarding the ponies. But the ponied were going missing, and all too soon Bilbo was creeping around the edges of the trolls' camp, trying to free their mounts before they became a troll's supper. He was able to reach them using his half-remembered stealth tricks, fading into the shadows and staying silent. A small burst of flame burnt the rope, allowing him to break the ponies from the pen, but they would not go with him- though they were used to his scent by now, he still smelled of predator to them, no better than the trolls. They broke from him and ran in a stampede back to the camp, leaving Bilbo to confront three angry, hungry trolls. 

"What's this?" one asked. 

"It stole our supper!" another declared, while the third dangled Bilbo from its large hands. Bilbo protested, suddenly feeling the desire to shift to his dragon form and char them. Before he could do more than think about it, the dwarves were attacking, and then they were caught, and he had to stall for time. Then Gandalf arrived, and somehow dawn came hours earlier than it should have, turning the trolls to stone. 

They found the troll-hoard then, and the dwarves busily buried some of the treasure to retrieve later. Gandalf handed Bilbo a hobbit-sized blade, "to protect you in this form, since you can't use your natural weapons." Bilbo grimaced at the feel of it, hating the very idea of killing, now that his life wasn't in danger, and hoped fervently that he would never have to use it, even as he buckled it onto his belt. 

Things moved fast then, and they reached Rivendell just ahead of the orc pack. Bilbo could smell the blood as the elves hunted the creatures down, slaying them for coming so near to their home, and felt sick. Even the beauty of the valley barely lifted his spirits, and the thing that eventually made him feel better was Elrond offering the use of his library. Bilbo spent the rest of their time in the Last Homely House collecting more stories, and felt much refreshed when they journeyed on. It was good for them all that he did, or he might have missed the scent of goblin in the cave they chose to shelter in. 

It was slight, an old scent that still clung to the rocks, but it was there, and Bilbo smelled it. He frowned, and leaned closer, sniffing the floor, where the scent was strongest. Something was off. 

"What are you doing?" Kili asked, coming up behind him as the dwarves laid out their blankets. "Are you _sniffing_ the floor?" 

"Kili," Thorin barked a reprimand to his nephew. Bilbo ignored them. 

"There's something wrong with this cave," he said. "I don't think we ought to stay here." 

The dwarves groaned at that, throwing disgusted looks outside, to where it was raining heavily. 

"Oh, come on, Bilbo," Kili whined, "it's just a dusty old cave. It's bound to smell funny, all the odd things that live in these mountains." 

"It smells of _goblin_ ," Bilbo told him, but before the prince could come up with a suitable response, the floor cracked open, and together they all spilled down into Goblin Town. 

Bilbo vanished when he hit the ground, using one of the dragon-tricks that were coming back to him faster with every day. Then he faded back, letting the goblins drive the dwarves on ahead, and made to follow. Unfortunately he was not alert enough and ran into a goblin on the way. The creature, though it could not see him, certainly felt it when Bilbo's body collided with it, and attacked. The force of it's lunge sent them both over the edge, and it was only close to the ground that the dragon was able to shift his form enough to free his wings. The goblin dropped like a stone, while Bilbo glided to land soundlessly some feet away. Another shift, and his eyes adjusted to the light, letting him see as if it were bright as day. 

Something else was coming up the passageway they had fallen into, something Bilbo hadn't seen or smelled before. It's scent was vaguely hobbit-like, but twisted, warped somehow, and very, very dark. It fell upon the downed goblin, finishing it off with a large rock and dragging the body back down the passageway. After some time, Bilbo followed, hoping to find a way out. In this form, his wings were alright for gliding, but without a drop to take off from, there was no way he could achieve the lift to reach the platform high above. 

Halfway down the passage, he stopped. He could feel something on the ground, calling to him. He stooped, and found a gold ring. It smelled nothing at all like the metal it appeared to be made from. No, it smelled _cold_ , and rather twisted, like the creature that had killed the goblin. Bilbo picked it up and put it in his pocket. If nothing else, Gandalf would know what to do with it. He got the feeling something that smelled like that shouldn't be left lying around. 

Eventually Bilbo came to a great open cavern with a lake, where he found the creature eating the goblin on the shore. It looked up as he approached and hissed. 

"Hssss.... What is it my precious? Is it tasty? Can we eats it?" 

"That- that's a good question," Bilbo said, unnerved by the cruel light in the creature's enormous eyes. "I'm not sure I know myself anymore. My- my name is Bilbo Baggins." 

"Riddles it speaks, precious. Not sure it knows what it is, but it is what it is, yes, precious," the creature said, making a noise in his throat like _gollum, gollum,_ such that Bilbo decided to call it Gollum. "What's it doing here?" 

Bilbo edged backwards as Gollum creeped closer. "I'm lost. I- I don't suppose you know the way out?" He could feel a draft at his back, but whether the tunnel led out or deeper into the mountain, he didn't know. 

"Oh!" Gollum said, "We knows. We knows the way. We show Baggins!" He sounded different then, almost innocent. But before Bilbo could say anything, he spoke again in a harsher voice, saying "Shut up!" 

"I didn't say anything," Bilbo protested, and Gollum glared at him. 

"Wasn't talking to you." 

"Look," Bilbo was tired. He'd just spent all day in the rain, walking away from the largest collection of stories he had ever seen, into unknown peril, and now twelve dwarves he was beginning to think of as family, and their unfairly attractive but aloof leader, were captured by goblins, and he just wanted to get out and go back and find some way to rescue them. "I'm not here to play games." 

That simple sentence started the oddest game of riddles Bilbo had ever participated in. The stakes were Gollum showing Bilbo the way out, or eating him if he lost, and Bilbo was allowed to ask the first riddle. Gollum asked some truly nasty ones, but somehow Bilbo managed to guess them all. And then it came down to the last question, and he was out of riddles. In desperation, he thought of the way Gollum had referred to his answer to "what is it?" as a riddle, and asked- "I live under the hill, but I belong to the sky. What am I?" When retelling the story he would just say he asked what was in his pockets, but it was a good riddle that had only the one answer- Bilbo Baggins, a dragon who lived as a hobbit. There was no way that Gollum could have known it, and he knew it. He demanded three guesses, which Bilbo gave, and guessed wrong each time. 

Of course, Bilbo had not expected Gollum to keep his word, and so when the creature slipped away, Bilbo faded back into the shadows. Gollum's cry when he realized he had lost something- probably whatever he had planned to kill Bilbo with- was truly terrifying, and Bilbo was glad for his dragon-tricks to keep him from meeting whatever end the creature had planned for him. Instead, he followed Gollum as he raced up the passageway, chasing nothing but believing he was following Bilbo all the way to the back gate of Goblin Town, just in time to see the dwarves run past. Bilbo could have danced for joy at that sight, but Gollum was still between him and escape. He could have snuck up on the creature, killing it from behind, but somehow, it just didn't feel right. Gollum was a wholly wretched being, and Bilbo just couldn't bring himself to end even so twisted a life. Instead, he used his wings to jump over the creature, and escape only a little behind his dwarves. 

He caught up with the company in a clearing away from the mountain, and took s minute to shift back, hiding his wings beneath smooth pinkish skin and the tattered remains of his shirt. He would have to come up with a good reason for the damage. Perhaps he could say he'd caught it on a rock? A shame, really, it had been such a nice waistcoat. 

Thorin's harsh voice cut through his thoughts as he crept closer. "Curse the halfling. Now he's lost?" He sounded very displeased, and Bilbo grimaced. Great, another reason to put him in Thorin's bad books. Ah well, it couldn't really be helped. He crept closer, past Dori, who was on sentry duty, and into the trees on the very edge of the clearing. 

"No he isn't," he said, and the party turned to look at him in astonishment. 

"Bilbo!" Bofur called. "Where did you come from?" 

"I fell down off the path the goblins took us on, and only just escaped," the dragon explained. "Though I'm glad to see you all are unharmed." 

Then he had to tell his story, though he kept it as brief as possible, knowing the goblins would be out after them once it was dark. He was glad to see Gandalf, and decided he would ask the wizard about the ring at the nearest opportunity. Which wouldn't be for a while yet, considering the warg howls they began to hear on the air. 

They ran again, but not far or fast enough. The orc pack cornered them and treed them on a cliff. Fire seemed to dismay the wargs at least, but it was looking like an increasingly hopeless situation. And then the pale orc showed himself. Thorin seemed to recognize him, and Bilbo remembered the stories from a few weeks ago- this orc fit the description of Azog the Defiler. Thorin's nemesis. 

While the others struggled with the tree as it fell, Thorin stood, drawing his blade. Bilbo watched as if in slow motion as the dwarf-king attacked the orc, and a bad feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He saw Thorin fall, and none were there to defend him. The bad feeling turned to terror, and all he could think was that he could not lose Thorin. Somehow, despite the odds and Thorin's cold and aloof behavior, the dwarf had become important to him. So Bilbo drew his blade and placed it between Thorin and Azog. Even if he had to reveal his true form, he would do it to save his dwarves. 

Fighting was not something he was used to, or something he was good at, but Bilbo managed to hold his own for a little while. But it was one hobbit-dragon against an orc pack, and soon he would have to reveal himself if he wanted to win. He readied a burst of fire in his chest, something to distract the orcs as he transformed, drew in a breath to blow it out - and saw the eagles arrive. They saved his dwarves, and even himself, and for the first time in several thousand years, Bilbo soared through the skies. 

The eagles left the off at the Carrock, a large rock placed so that anyone at the top could look out over the land beyond. But neither Bilbo or the dwarves had eyes for the view. Instead, the crowded around Thorin and Gandalf, anxious to see how their king was doing. Bilbo held back from the rest. He could smell Thorin's blood, but it was not enough to signify life-threatening wounds. The sharp scent of Gandalf's Magic spiked in the air, and then faded, and Bilbo heard Thorin take a breath. He let out a breath of his own- one he hadn't even been aware he had been holding. Thorin was alright. 

"The halfling?" Thorin asked, and Bilbo watched, confused, as the dwarf pushed himself to his feet, staggering just a little as he made his way forward through his kin, to find Bilbo. The dragon didn't understand. They hadn't exchanged more than a few words since Bilbo's outburst after his story. Why would Thorin be concerned about him? 

"You!" Thorin barked, and Bilbo sighed. Not concerned then, angry. "What were you thinking?" 

"I, ah, I was-" Bilbo stammered in the face of Thorin's glare. The dwarf stalked up to him, until they were almost nose-to-nose, and Bilbo couldn't help but notice how _good_ Thorin smelled. 

"Did I not say you should never have left your home? That you had no place amongst us?" he asked, and Bilbo tried to shrink in on himself, away from those intense sapphire eyes. He tried to think of an argument, something, anything, to say that would convince Thorin he deserved to stay. 

"I have never been more wrong," Thorin said, and, to the surprise of nearly everyone there, he pulled Bilbo to him in a tight embrace. It felt, well, Bilbo couldn't describe how it felt, beyond warm and safe, but that embrace was something special. And he felt something, something more than relief and gladness, stir in his heart while around them his dwarves cheered.


	2. The Exiled King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell this thing grew! Sorry it's taken me so long to get this next chapter up, and I'm even sorrier it's not the conclusion you all were expecting. I wanted to wrap things up with another 6,000 words, and then, well. You see the word count up there. Writer's block turned into.... word _vomit _on Friday, and another pair of long car rides turned into 6,200+ words. So, new plan. This is going to be four chapters long. The next one should be up by the end of the week, and should take us all the way up to (or past) the battle of five armies. Then there will be a short epilogue a day or two after that goes up.__
> 
> __Please let me know what you think! <3 Thank you for reading!!_ _

They climbed down from the Carrock after a short rest while Thorin’s wounds were bandaged. Bilbo kept his eyes on the ground in front of him and tried not to think about Thorin’s hug. Every time he remembered that warmth, being enveloped by those strong arms, he felt… it wasn’t a feeling he had ever known before, and it worried him. He chewed on his lower lip, trying to place it. It was a good feeling, to be sure, but beyond that… and the way he had _needed_ to save Thorin in that clearing. He wanted to protect the dwarf, keep him safe, or at least stand by his side in danger. Moreover, he wanted to take his dragon shape and bear Thorin away from all of this. He hadn’t ever wanted to regain his true form so badly as he had when staring down Azog’s minions, and that scared him. He had spent the past three ages- nearly seven thousand _years_ \- living as a hobbit. He could remember the Wandering Days, while the hobbits searched for a home, carrying him with them, a dragon-child in hobbit form, raised by the whole community. He remembered the war against the great evil, when he had hidden in his hole while fear stole over the world, shivering and praying that he would not lose his new home. And he remembered every day since then, living a quite life with his books and stories and the hobbits around him. But never, not once since he had left the shores of Valinor behind him, had he ever felt the need to take on his true form. Hobbit form suited him fine, and had done so for a very long time now. He’d experimented a few times, just playing with the shifting magic inherent in his kind, but had stopped when he saw it made the hobbits uncomfortable. The only time he ever used it now, or at least before the journey, was to change his eyes so he didn’t need to light a candle in the dark. But now he wanted to fly, to sprout his own wings and leap into the air, to soar, flaming over anyone who would dare to hurt his dwarves. It was terrifying.

“You look troubled.” Gandalf had fallen back to walk beside Bilbo without the dragon noticing. He jumped at the sound of the wizard’s voice, then glared at him.

“Don’t do that, Gandalf! I almost roasted you!”

Gandalf chuckled. “My dear boy, if you had been about to roast me, I would have known it.”

“Hmph.” Bilbo turned his glare back to the path. “Fine then. But I might have stabbed you. This adventure business has me awfully high-strung you know.”

“Ah, but it is good for you,” the wizard said, and Bilbo could not disagree. He let silence lapse between them for a time, trying not to think about Thorin or about taking dragon form, and failing miserably at both. At last, Gandalf spoke up again. “My dear boy, what is bothering you? I’ve never known you to go this long without starting to talk about another one of your stories.”

Bilbo glanced at him and said, annoyed, “Well, what’s a hoard for if you never share it? It just sits there getting all dusty and useless. I’m not like those _worms_ , Gandalf. I’d not keep a thing for myself just because I valued it, especially not if other people could enjoy it.”

“Very well then,” Gandalf acquiesced. “I have not known you to go more than two minutes without _sharing_ one of your tales. What is wrong?”

“I…” Bilbo wasn’t going to tell Gandalf he was worried about liking Thorin too much, that would just be embarrassing. He cast about for something else to say, and hit on the ring in his pocket. “I found something, down in the tunnels. I think it’s something you need to see. It’s… _evil_ , Gandalf. That’s the best I can describe it. And it smells of power. Cold. Like the power of… of the enemy.”

“Hmm,” the wizard studied him, considering. “Not here. I’m leading us to a place where we will be safe enough for a few days. Show me there.”

They made it down without incident, and Gandalf lead them across the country. In a field an hour or two’s march from the Carrock, the wizard halted and turned to look at the company. “Now, the person I am taking us to is very particular, and easily annoyed. Also, he is not over fond of dwarves. I believe he will help us, but it is best not to arrive all at once. We shall go in pairs, with Mister Baggins and I going first. When I give the signal, Thorin, you will come with Balin. Fili and Kili, wait five minutes and then follow. After that, the rest of you should come in pairs every five minutes.”

“And what will you be doing? Who are you taking us to?” Thorin demanded.

Gandalf met his eyes, and Bilbo tensed, knowing Thorin wasn’t going to back down. Then Gandalf nodded. “His name is Beorn, and he is a skin changer.”

A mutter went through the dwarves at that, low and unhappy, but it wasn’t like they had options. The wizard turned, a hand on Bilbo’s shoulders, drawing the dragon after him.

“Uh, Gandalf,” Bilbo said, when they were a safe distance away, “are you sure about this? Won’t he know what I am? I mean, I can’t exactly change how I smell.”

“He will know,” Gandalf assured him, “But I will remind him of your people. He will not harm you, nor will he, I think, refuse to help the dwarves. For all his dislike of Durin’s folk, he hates orcs more.”

“But what if-”

“No,” Gandalf cut him off. “He will help us. At the very least, he will let us stay for the night.”

Bilbo was stopped from forming another argument by the sight of a large house. It appeared to all be one single story, but built far larger than any home of elves or men. He could smell horses, and sheep, and other animals. And there was one scent he didn’t know. It circled around them as he stood, and came from behind without warning. It slammed into Bilbo, driving him forward, pinning him to the ground. He twisted in it’s grip, turning until he could look up into the eyes of the largest bear he had ever seen.

“Why are you here?” it growled. “There is nothing for you here. No gold. No treasure. Nothing your kind desires. What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing!” Bilbo exclaimed, panicked. His hobbit body was almost entirely covered by the gigantic paw, claws brushed against his neck, drawing drops of blood. “Nothing! I swear! I’m just-!”

“Don’t lie to me. Your kind comes only to take and destroy.” The claws dug deeper, and Bilbo felt a trickle of blood run down his neck. He winced.

“I swear. Please. Ow.”

“Ahem.” Gandalf coughed, and the bear turned it’s head to look at him. “He’s with me. We mean you no harm.”

“And you are?” the bear demanded.

“Gandalf the Grey,” the wizard said.

“Don’t remember you,” the bear told him. “What do you want?”

“Shelter, for the night, for myself, my companion, and a few others. We’re running from a pack of orcs, which you might be interested to known are on your property.”

“Hmm,” the bear growled. “Yes, I smell them on you. What does a dragon have to fear from orcs?”

“Plenty, when he’s been living as a hobbit for the last six thousand years,” Bilbo said, or tried to. Mostly it emerged as a frightened squeak. The bear rumbled deep in his chest- a sound the dragon recognized after a moment as a laugh.

“You smell like a dragon, but you act more like a little bunny,” the bear told him. “And you do not smell of death, as most of your kind do. I think I will hear your story, and judge whether I will kill you after.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo gasped as the paw was removed. “That’s very kind of you.”

The bear grunted, then suddenly the scent in the air shifted, and so did the bear, his fur rippling and bulging, turning pinkish and smooth, until in place of the bear there was a very large man. Bilbo slowly sat up and massaged his neck, using the ruins of his waistcoat to wipe up the blood. It certainly wouldn’t do for Thorin and the others to come up and see him injured! As he did so, Gandalf began to explain. When he got to the part about Smaug, the bear-man held up a hand to stop him.

“You are going to slay Smaug?” he asked, looking at Bilbo, who nodded.

“I am. Or well, I’m going to try. I’m not sure how well I’ll do, but that’s beside the point, really.”

“And why would _you_ want to kill another of your kind?”

“He’s not _my kind_ ,” Bilbo snapped, annoyed by the implied kinship between himself and the Worms of Morgoth. “I’m no Uruloki, no twisted worm bound to the enemy’s will. I’m a Dragon of Eru, and if you must know, it was Smaug himself that killed my family.”

“Ah.” The bear-man’s eyes widened, and he looked at Bilbo with a new respect- and much less hostility. “I see. That is why your scent is not so vile. You are the last of your kind. I know your story. Please, continue,” he turned back to Gandalf, who obliged.

Halfway through the story, Thorin (who had gotten tired of waiting) appeared, along with Balin, and Beorn greeted them far more cordially than he had Bilbo. Then he bade Gandalf continue the story, now aided by Thorin and Balin. Some five minutes later, Fili and Kili arrived, to the surprise of Beorn, and were welcomed as well. And so it went, the others arriving in pairs, until at last all thirteen dwarves were standing outside Beorn’s home. When they had told him all that had happened up to their arrival, Beorn looked them over with a wary eye. The dwarves, all save Thorin, fidgeted under his gaze, but Thorin stood straight and met the skinchanger’s eyes. At length, Beorn sighed.

“I do not like dwarves,” he said, and the company looked at each other, concerned. “No, I have no fondness for dwarves. Yet I hate orcs more. I will help you, in thanks for the story, and for what you aim to do. Be welcomed in my hall.” Then he led them inside, where they found comfortable beds to lie in, and an abundance of good food to eat. After a time their host departed, but bade them ask the animals for anything they should desire, within reason. The dwarves relaxed, glad for the respite after the harrowing past few days, and fell to telling stories by the fire. Bilbo sagged against his chair, all but worn out from excitement. First goblins, then Gollum, then orcs, and finally Beorn. He was really getting tired of being attacked. He closed his eyes, and allowed himself to imagine he was back home in the Shire, in his own comfortable armchair. There, lulled by the familiar voices of his friends and the warmth of the fire, he dozed.

He was woken by the sound of someone coming to sit next to him. He opened an eye to see Thorin, an uncharacteristic soft smile on his face as he watched Bilbo. It faded away as he noticed Bilbo looking back.

“Thorin,” Bilbo greeted him. “Hello.”

“Bilbo.” Thorin settled into his seat, staring at the fire. “I… have yet to thank you. For saving my life.”

“No, you don’t have to. Anyone would have done it,” Bilbo said.

“’Anyone’ didn’t. _You_ did. And for that, I thank you. I underestimated you, and for that I was wrong. I fear I have made you feel… less than welcome in my company, and for that I apologize. That was not my intent.”

“No apology needed,” Bilbo gave him a small smile. “I understand. I know you weren’t sure of me, and you have your family to think of. I understood that, even if I didn’t like it.”

Thorin chuckled, that soft smile creeping back into the edges of his expression. “You are full of surprises, Master Baggins.”

“Bilbo,” the dragon told him firmly. “If you’re going so far as to apologize to me, you ought to call me by my first name.”

“Bilbo, then.” Thorin watched him with those intense eyes. “I would make amends for my previous actions.”

“Not necessary,” Bilbo said. “Like I said, I understand. Just, ah, try not to get yourself killed, yeah? I’d really rather not have to save you again. I’m not very good with my sword, you know.”

“I can change that,” Thorin offered. “If you like, that is.”

Bilbo blinked at him, thrown off balance by that. “Are you- that is, are you offering to, to teach me how to fight?”

“Why not?” Thorin shrugged. “It is unlikely that the rest of our journey should be safe, considering how it’s been so far. It would be beneficial for us all, if you learn to defend yourself better.”

“I, ah, well, alright. Why not, then?” And that was how Bilbo came to be awake far earlier than normal the next morning, squaring off with Thorin in the grass outside Beorn’s house. It was an interesting lesson. Thorin proved a patient teacher, and while Bilbo did not like the feel of the blade in his hand- it felt unnatural to be using a weapon that was not part of himself- he learned quickly. He would never be able to beat Thorin in a swordfight, but when it came down to it, if it was between his life and the life of an enemy, Bilbo supposed he would always fall back on his true form. But best keep that a secret for now, especially when Thorin was just starting to trust him.

They spent that day in relative idleness, recovering from the journey thus far. Their host was strangely absent, but his animals provided them with food or anything else they might need. Bilbo thought it odd to see the dogs carrying dishes in their front paws and walking on their hind legs, but he supposed he himself was a rather odd sight to Beorn, who could smell his true form, and so didn’t say anything. The food was good, and the drink plentiful, and it was nice to simply relax for a few hours.

After lunch, Bilbo forced himself to seek Gandalf out. The wizard took one look at his face and smiled comfortingly, drawing him off to the woods a fair way from the house. Neither of them noticed the keen eyes of Kili watching them as they left. Once they reached a small clearing out of sight and earshot, Gandalf stopped and turned to Bilbo.

“Alright, Mister Baggins, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Well, ah, I found something, you see. In the tunnels. And I think- I think it’s evil.” He reached into his pocket and pulled it out. The wizard stared at it.

“It appears to be a ring,” he said, holding a hand out over it, hesitating to touch the thing.

“A ring of power, I think,” Bilbo said. “I’d put it on and see what happens, but I get the feeling I’d better not. It smells of power, and the enemy.” He could smell it even clearer here than he could in the dark, dank goblin tunnels. It had a strong scent of power, and the bitter, cold scent of evil.

“It can’t be one of the nine, we know what happened to them. And the three are accounted for. Only one of the seven remains in the world today, and that was last seen on Thrain in the mines of Moria. Perhaps it is a lesser ring?” Gandalf frowned, and Bilbo could tell he was worried. That worried _him_.

“Can you test it?” he asked, and Gandalf shook his head.

“I know of no test that would tell us what this ring is. At least, none that would not be incredibly risky.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo glared at the ring in his palm. “I- wait, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?” the wizard asked, but Bilbo held a hand up to silence him.

“It’s like… whispers. I can just hear them, like they were standing far away.” He frowned, eyebrows coming together as he concentrated, but he couldn’t pinpoint where the sounds came from. It was as if they were all around them.

“I hear nothing,” Gandalf admitted, “but your ears are better than mine.”

“No, I…” Bilbo closed his hand around the ring, and the whispers stopped. He opened his fingers, and he could hear them again. Acting on instinct, he raised the ring and, despite his earlier feelings against it, slipped it onto his finger. Instantly, he knew he was in the shadow world, that unseen place between life and death. It felt wrong, much as the ring itself felt wrong, and suddenly he could hear the whispers much clearer- for they were whispers no longer, but words spoken in a dark voice that rang with power.

**“Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul,**

**ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum ishi krimpatul.”**

Bilbo slipped the ring from his finger and threw it from him. It landed in the dirt in the center of the clearing, and he stared at it in horror. Gandalf was looking at him in surprise.

“What is it, Bilbo? What happened?”

Bilbo took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “That… that’s no lesser ring. When I put it on, I heard a voice, Gandalf. A voice in the Black Speech. It said…” he concentrated, trying to remember the language he only knew a little of. “It said _One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them_.”

“The One,” Gandalf breathed, eyes wide. “I had hoped it would remain lost. That it was found again, at this time, means that our enemy is once again moving.”

“But, Gandalf, it’s… we have to destroy it. He can’t get it back. Even I know what would happen if he did. I can’t… I can’t see that again.”

“Burn it,” the wizard ordered. “Burn it, here and now. Your fire might be the only thing this side of Mount Doom hot enough. You must do it quickly, before it can get a hold on you. I should have spoken with you yesterday, and given it even that much time to work on you. It is well you never put it on, for I cannot think of what would have happened if you had.”

“Right,” Bilbo agreed, more frightened than ever by the urgency in the wizard’s voice. “I- hang on a moment.” The fire was there, as it always was, just below the surface. It burned hot within him, hotter than any other fire he had ever felt. The dragon called to it, pulling on the dragon-magic that formed it, until it came to his bidding. He didn’t even notice the wings that burst from his back, or the amber scales that appeared on his skin. No, he only concentrated on one thing- the fire, and walked to the ring. Bending down in front of it, he let loose his flames, and didn’t let up until the ground around him was scorched black. The ring fought him. A high keening noise pierced the air, and visions assulted Bilbo’s mind. The things he could do with the ring- bring back the Dragons of Eru, remake the world into a better place, slay the enemy, stand victorious over all the twisted creatures of Morgoth, any number of things, but with determination he ignored them all. He knew very well that nothing crafted by the enemy could bring his family back. No, the best he could do would be to destroy it, and thus weaken Sauron. He turned his mind instead to his anger against the one who had trained Sauron- Morgoth, the first dark lord. He remembered the deaths of his family, hiding in his little cave while outside he could hear the screams of the dying. And he used the memory of fear, and the fresh anger, to fuel his flames. The ring burned and melted, loosing it’s form. A shriek rose from it, a cry more of terror than anger, and a dark clap of thunder shook the sky. And then it was over. The very center of the clearing, where he had concentrated the hottest part of his fire, was reduced to slag and molten stone surrounding a small, bright puddle of gold.

Bilbo staggered, exhausted. He hadn’t ever used that much of his power, and it was draining. Gandalf caught him, drawing him over to a place that was not burnt black and gently settling him down on the ground. Together, they waited for the mess to cool. Bilbo dozed, worn out by the deliberate use of his fire, at least until Gandalf abruptly stood up.

“What? What?” Bilbo scrambled to right himself- he’d been leaning against the wizard’s side.

“Shh,” Gandalf held up a hand to quiet him. “There’s…. Ah.” Quick as lightning, he reached behind a tree and pulled out a protesting dwarf.

“Hey, hey, watch it!” the dwarf exclaimed, tugging at Gandalf’s hand in his hair.

“Kili!” Bilbo stared at his friend, the blood draining from his face. How much did he see?

Apparently, Gandalf had the same question, because it was the first thing he asked Kili.

“Nothing, I swear! I just got here! I- I saw you all heading off. And then I heard the noise from the forest, and I got worried so I came out here. And, wow, did you melt that, Gandalf?”

Gandalf dropped Kili down next to Bilbo, and glared at him. “And if I did?”

“Um…” the prince looked thoroughly cowed under that glare. “Then… I’m sure you had your reasons?”

“I did,” Gandalf said. “Very good reasons. Reasons which have nothing to do with yourself or your quest.”

“So… what was it?”

The wizard glared at Kili, who closed his mouth and tried to look innocent. Bilbo laughed, which quickly turned into a hacking cough as his throat protested the abuse he’d put it through with the fire. Kili and Gandalf were instantly at his side, the wizard producing a flask of water and pressing it to Bilbo’s mouth.

“Bilbo!” Kili rubbed a gentle hand against his back. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Bilbo told him, after taking a big gulp of water. “Just… just tired. I helped Gandalf melting the… the thing. That I found in the goblin tunnels.”

“Woah!” Kili looked at Bilbo with more respect. “What was it?”

“Something of unimaginable evil,” Gandalf said gravely. “And now it is gone. And for that, we have Bilbo to thank.”

Kili’s wide eyes darted between Bilbo, Gandalf, and the tiny puddle of gold in the center of the now rapidly cooling clearing. “So you… Bilbo, are you a wizard too?”

“No,” Bilbo shook his head. “I just loaned Gandalf some energy. That’s why I’m tired.”

“Ah.” Kili tried hard to look like he understood, and failed. He was clearly out of his depth, and he knew it. “Well then. Good. And you- you’re alright?” The concern in his voice was touching, and Bilbo found himself giving the dwarf a reassuring squeeze of his shoulder.

“Yes, I’m alright. Or I will be, with a little sleep.”

“Well then, come on,” Kili stood and pulled Bilbo up by the arm, supporting him. Bilbo was fairly certain Kili’s arm around his shoulders was the only reason he was able to stand.

“Wait,” Gandalf said, and approached the cooled ring. With the butt of his staff, he dug the gold out of the earth, though much of the rock beneath it came away as well- fused to the metal. “I will take this to Rivendell to study. We will need to be sure the evil in it has been destroyed. You did well, Bilbo. You may very well have saved us all a lot of heartache.”

Bilbo blushed. “Thank you, Gandalf. But really, it wasn’t much.”

The wizard lifted an eyebrow at him. “To you, mayhaps. But to me, and several others, it was quite extraordinary.”

“Come on, Bilbo,” Kili all but lifted the dragon from the ground. “Let’s get you back. I’m sure the others will want to hear what happened! Why didn’t you tell us, anyway? We could have helped.”

“It was a matter for wizards, master dwarf,” Gandalf responded. “And Master Baggins just happened to stumble upon it in the goblin tunnels. There was no need to involve anyone else.”

 

The others came running as soon as they saw Kili exiting the woods carrying Bilbo. Thorin himself picked up their burglar from his nephew, while giving Gandalf an impressive glower.

“Kili, what happened?” he barked, already heading back towards the house, and Kili was all to happy to tell.

“I saw Bilbo and Gandalf going off into the woods, and I followed. I, ah, may have gotten a little lost, and when I found them, the dirt in front of them was _melted_ , and Gandalf said Bilbo found something in the goblin tunnels, and he’d destroyed it.”

“That does not explain how Master Baggins came to be in this state,” Thorin said, turning his frown on Bilbo, who took the opportunity to protest his current position.

“I can stand on my own, Thorin, really, you don’t need to carry me.” He squirmed in the dwarf’s arms, attempting to make him let go, but only succeeded in being gripped tighter. It was not a wholly unpleasant sensation, which increased Bilbo’s determination to get down- this was no time for feelings like that, especially not between a dragon disguised as a hobbit and the king of the dwarves!

“Kili?” Thorin ignored Bilbo, instead turning back to gaze at Gandalf.

“Bilbo said he was helping him. Something about loaning him energy. That’s why he’s tired.”

“Ye- yes, that’s what I was doing. I’m fine, really.” Bilbo tried again to squirm out of Thorin’s hold, and was once again unsuccessful.

“You should have asked, Gandalf. If you needed energy, any of use would have gladly given it to you, and Master Baggins would not currently be exhausted.”

“Let me assure you, Master Baggins was the _only_ one who could have done this,” Gandalf said with a matching glare at Thorin. Much more kindly, he added “He will be fine, with a little rest.”

“ _He_ is right here,” Bilbo said, irritated now. “And I would like to walk on my own, _thank you_.” He twisted around, pulling a little on his draconic strength to force himself out of Thorin’s hands with a firm kick against the dwarf’s chest. Thorin staggered, looking at Bilbo in shock. The dragon, exhausted, took two steps before his legs gave out and he dropped to the ground. Thorin knelt down next to him.

“You can walk, can you?”

Bilbo glared at the amusement in his face. “Just don’t carry me like a child.”

“Alright,” Thorin sighed and slipped under Bilbo’s arm. “Come, Master Burglar, I think it’s time you told us exactly what happened in those tunnels.” He shot another glare at Gandalf. “This isn’t over.”

Thorin settled Bilbo in front of the fire, giving him a large mug of the sweet honeyed mead the animals brewed. Then the the dwarves all gathered around him, waiting expectantly for him to start the tale. It took surprisingly little time to tell it. The company was the best audience, gasping at the right times, asking the right questions, and Ori even gave a small shriek when he told them about Gollum’s attack. When it came to explaining the ring, he told them he thought it felt evil when he picked it up, not that it had _smelled_ evil. The rest of the story he told as it happened, except for the last riddle, which he told as “what’s in my pocket?” instead of the true question. Then Thorin asked to see the ring, and Gandalf produced the puddle-shaped blob of gold fused with rock from the clearing. Bifur (with Bofur to translate) declared it unworkable metal, and Gandalf put it away. Then there was a call for Bilbo to tell the story again, and by the time he was finished, it was time for dinner. He was so tired by then that he could barely keep his eyes open, and fell into bed right after the meal with a grateful sigh. Which meant he was asleep when Thorin cornered Gandalf, so he did not see the anger in Thorin’s eyes at his treatment of their burglar, or hear the concern in his voice when he asked if Bilbo would be alright.

 

They stayed with Beorn for three days. After a night’s sleep, Bilbo was completely recovered, and his sword practice with Thorin went uninterrupted. They also just talked, which was odd, but a welcome change from the coolness that had been between the pair before. Bilbo found he enjoyed Thorin’s company, and even sought the dwarf out for companionship from time to time. It was pleasant, staying in Beorn’s house with all the dwarves around him, and Bilbo wished they could stay like that forever. But the quest drew them forward, like a moth to a flame, and soon the company started getting restless. By the end of the third day, Thorin declared that they would leave in the morning, and begin the journey through Mirkwood.

Beorn’s ponies were of sturdier stuff than the dwarves’ previous mounts, and Bilbo’s barely even glanced at him as he approached her. They carried the company swiftly and surely to the entrance to the elves’ road. There they paused. While the others began unsaddling the ponies, Bilbo felt a pull towards the forest. He stopped at the very edge of the trees, and took a deep breath. All he could smell was sickness. Something was wrong, and it was coming from a corner of the forest far to the south.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo looked back to the wizard, who was watching him. “This forest… it feels wrong. Sick. Like it’s dying.”

The dwarves stopped and stared between them and the trees. Gandalf nodded slowly.

“I know. It was once called Greenwood, until a shadow began to fall on it from the south.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply and then froze. “Did you feel that?” The earth under their feet shook, and then stilled. Bilbo sensed, rather than heard, a shriek rising up from the south. He crouched down, covering his hears, but the sound was in his mind. Then, as quickly as it started, it stopped. Bilbo found himself looking up at Thorin, whose arms were curled protectively around his shoulders.

“Okay,” Bilbo said. “Wh- what the _hell_ was that?”

The dwarves looked at each other, then back at Bilbo.

“We didn’t feel anything,” Fili said. “Bilbo, are you alright?”

“He is fine,” Gandalf told them. “He merely felt the evil that inhabited Dol Guldur, fleeing from the forest. I am sorry, my friends, but this is where I must leave you. What Bilbo and I just felt must be investigated.”

“You’re leaving?” Kili asked plaintively. “ _Now_? But we’ve come so far already!”

“I would not leave you unless it was absolutely necessary. With any luck, I will be able to return to you soon, perhaps as soon as you have passed through Mirkwood.”

“Gandalf,” Bilbo called for him. “Be- be careful. That… whatever that was, it didn’t sound, well, it didn’t sound friendly.”

“Bilbo,” the wizard smiled at him, “I shall be fine. With the loss of the ring, the enemy was greatly weakened.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good.”

Gandalf gave Bilbo a comforting squeeze on his shoulder, then turned to Thorin. “I’ll be waiting for you at the overlook, before the slopes of Erebor. Do not enter that mountain without me.” He gave Thorin a hard look as he spoke, as if trying to impress upon the dwarf the importance of his words. Bilbo felt a shiver down his spine. If they were to enter the mountain, without a wizard to cleanse the gold… His dwarves would fall to the Dragon Sickness, and he knew of no way to cure it once it began. “Now, the evil may be leaving this forest, but it still dangerous. All of you, _stay on the path_. If you do not, you will never find it again.”

With that, he mounted his horse and rode away. The remaining company looked around at each other for a moment, before Thorin gave a sharp nod.

“Right then. Let’s move out. We must still reach the mountain before Durin’s Day.”

Bilbo and the other dwarves followed him onto the path, and soon the thick leaves overhead closed out all sight of the sky. They had no way of knowing what Gandalf was doing- that he was meeting with the others of his order and some other trusted and powerful allies, to move against Sauron and defeat him once and for all. The tale of that great battle would reach them months later, when the Lonely Mountain was inhabited by dwarves once again, and then many would say that it was only won because of Bilbo Baggins, and the ring he had destroyed. It was a great battle, and many heroes from across Middle Earth took part in it, but it plays no part in our story, and thus it will remain for others to tell of it. For this tale, all we need know is that Gandalf left, and the company entered Mirkwood without him.

At first, traveling through the forest was easy. They had supplies enough to last, and the path was clear. But gradually the forest grew darker, until even at noon there was only a hazy sort of twilight. The darkness was uncomfortable during the day, and at night it was pitch black. To make matters worse, if they lit a fire the camp was soon surrounded by blinking eyes and growling noises. Not even Bilbo’s draconic presence changed that, though he did notice the eyes kept further from him than the others. Nobody else noticed, and soon they stopped having a fire altogether- the eyes were more unsettling than the darkness. A week passed in this manner, and then two. The supplies started to run low, especially the water. But no animal crossed the path, and they had been told not to drink the water from the streams, so they had no way to supplement their stores. Packs that had seemed unbearably heavy when they entered the forest now seemed much too light. Bilbo climbed a tree to see if they were near the edge of the forest, but saw nothing. He had no way of knowing that the tree he had climbed was in a valley, and that, had they waited just another mile or two, the end to their journey would have been easily visible, and so he returned with only disappointing news.

Still they forged on, since forward was the only way. They cut back on meals first to two a day, and then only one. Water was used sparingly, just enough to sustain them, and they all prayed that they would leave the woods before their supply ran out. It was a dismal mood that they found themselves in, when they came to a stream that cut across the path. Beorn had warned them of it, and said that to even touch it’s water would be to fall into a deep and unending sleep. There was a boat for crossing, but it held only three at the most. All but Bombur made it across unscathed, but the large dwarf had the ill luck to fall getting out of the boat, and when they drew him from the water he was fast asleep, and would not wake. And so the company was forced to carry him, taking it in turns and distributing the packs more equally amongst those who were not carrying Bombur. This went on for two days, before Fili spotted the lights.

They were just off the path, campfires burning in the forest, and Bilbo could smell good food- a proper feast. Before he could say anything, the dwarves were charging off after the light, away from the path. Thorin was in the lead when they reached the fire, and saw elves feasting at a long table. But the moment he stepped into the light, the fire went out and they were thrown into darkness. It took some time to find each other again, and when they did they found they did not know the way back to the path. Then the lights sprang up again, farther away this time, and off they ran. Again, the lights were extinguished almost before they stepped into the torchlight, and again they fumbled to find each other only to see the lights spring up again farther off. This process was repeated two or three more times, until finally they were turned around and thoroughly lost. That was when the spiders attacked.


	3. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so, I didn't intend to leave it this long to get this chapter up, but life got kind of crazy. But here we are, and since I'm stuck in the city for medical for the weekend, the next chapter should be up sometime before sunday! Now, I promised the next chapter was going to be an epilogue, but this chapter ended up being waaaay too long, so I cut it a bit, and there will be mostly content in the next chapter. I may or may not make a fifth chapter for the epilogue, but if I do it won't be very long, and it'll go up around the same time as chapter four. 
> 
> Fair warning- this is unbetaed, and the majority of it was written while sick. If you spot a mistake or a scene that doesn't quite make sense, feel free to let me know! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Please enjoy! Also, thanks to everyone who left comments and kudos, you guys really make my day!

Bilbo hated spiders. Even the normal-sized ones reminded him too much of Ungoliant’s children, and these monstrosities were far, far too close to that horror for any sort of comfort. While the dwarves fought around him, he fought within himself. His instinct was to take flight, to burn everything before him until nothing but ash remained. The rational part of him knew that he did not have enough control over his flames to burn only the spiders- his dwarves would also be harmed. Not only that, but he knew they weren’t ready to see his true form. So he fought himself, and then the spiders were coming at him too, and the time to think was over. Bilbo swung out with his little sword, and promptly forgot all the lessons Thorin had given him. The dragon snarled, curses flowing from his mouth in Quenya as he slashed and jabbed, the weapon more like an extension of his claws than a sword. Spiders fell before him, screaming, but only half his mind was on the fight. The other half was busy keeping his form, and keeping the flame from roasting his friends. That was the only excuse he could think of, for why he didn’t smell the elves.

Fortunately, Bilbo had been drawn off by a few of the spiders, and was not with the rest of the party when the elves appeared. He hated to think what would have happened had they known he was there- Thranduil had been known before to have a shoot-first policy, and Bilbo quite liked his skin thank you. Instead, he smelled the elves as he returned to the group and quickly faded back into the shadows. He followed, silent as smoke, until they reached the halls of the elvenking. There, the group was separated- Thorin taken down one hallway, the rest led off downward, to what was probably the dungeon. Bilbo followed the king, taking care that not even the sharp-eared elven prince heard the scuff of his bare feet on the stone. It would not due to be discovered now.

They were led to a large hall, where Thranduil himself sat on the throne. Bilbo hovered about the edges, worried. To get out of this, they needed diplomacy- not something Thorin was known for in the presence of elves. And, sure enough, Thorin went and put his foot in it, insulting their host by first implying he had no honor, and then telling him he spit upon his grave. In a rage, the elvenking sent Thorin down to join his kin in the dungeons, and Bilbo began to relax. He could get them out of the dungeon, even if he had to melt the bars. It wouldn’t be easy, especially not without revealing himself, but so long as the elves didn’t sense him-

“Wait.”

Bilbo froze, and Thorin turned around to level an icy glare at the elf.

“What is that scent?” Thranduil stalked closer, circling Thorin. “I don’t- ah.” He stopped, and Bilbo couldn’t tell if his expression was one of contempt, or of fear. “You smell of _dragon_.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Thorin barked. “I haven’t been near a dragon in over a hundred and fifty years. Not since Smaug took the mountain. Or are you going to accuse me of having already been in the mountain, now?”

“No, I know you have not. Nevertheless, you have been around a dragon recently. Don’t tell me you’ve stooped so low as to bargain with another worm?”

Thorin stiffened, and Bilbo’s heart ached at the disgust on his face. “Never. The only thing in the world with less honor than you is a dragon. I would not endanger my people in such a way.”

“My senses do not lie, Thorin Oakenshield,” Thranduil said, circling again. “I smell it, see it, _feel_ it. The aura of a dragon, wrapping around you, binding itself to you. The vile-” he paused, and leaned in, sniffing right against Thorin’s beard. Bilbo watched as the elf’s eyes widen, and he backed away a step. “Not vile. Untainted, pure. What is this? Have they begun breeding again? A dragon child? Have you encountered a breeding dragon? Tell me!” The elvenking reached out and picked Thorin up off the floor, shaking him.

“I do not know what you are talking about!” Thorin insisted, and Bilbo’s heart ached to see him being treated so. “You are mad.”

“Mad? Perhaps,” Thranduil said slowly. “But if you have found the dragons are breeding again, you _will_ tell me where.” Where just moments before his movements had been frantic, now they were chillingly calm as he set Thorin back upon his feet and drew his blade. “Now. I will give you one chance. Where is the dragon?”

Bilbo watched, terrified, his true form calling to him to change, to protect his dwarf. Thorin couldn’t answer, because he didn’t know. But Thranduil didn’t know that, and he didn’t look like he was capable of taking no for an answer. In a panic, Bilbo did the only thing he could possibly do- he drew on his power, speaking mentally in the manner of his kind, throwing his voice so it echoed out of every corner of the hall.

“Let him go!”

Thrandul stopped and stepped away from Thorin, eyes searching the room for Bilbo.

“Show yourself, creature.”

Bilbo took a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to shift, to throw Thranduil away from Thorin, but the part of him that had been a hobbit for so very long knew how unwise that would be. He would save no one that way, not with thousands of armed elves just seconds away.

“I said _let him go_ ,” Bilbo roared. Then, with a burst of power to strengthen his arms, he threw the doors open. Thranduil growled and raced forward to stand in the doorway, inches from Bilbo, searching for the invisible presence. The dragon pressed himself against the wall, hoping his hobbit body would be too small for him to notice, even if he could see through invisibility. Thorin watched, confused and contemptuous, a hand on his belt where his sword should have been. Bilbo had no doubt that, should he show his true form at that moment, Thorin would help Thranduil to cut him down. The thought hurt, more than it should have.

“Guards!” Thranduil shouted, and ran down the hall. Guards appeared from doors all along the way and followed the elvenking, searching for the invisible dragon. When they had all disappeared Bilbo heaved a sigh of relief and willed himself visible again, stepping out from behind a pillar.

“Thorin,” he called, and the dwarf turned to him in surprise.

“Bilbo?” he asked, then chuckled. “I see, that voice was you. How did you hide from the tree-shagger?”

Bilbo shrugged. “There’s many things about me that you don’t know. Come on, we need to rescue the others and get out of here before Thranduil realizes there isn’t any dragon.

Thorin’s laugh was warm and low as he followed Bilbo from the room. “Ah, but I am learning more every day.”

“Be careful, my king. You may learn something you don’t like,” Bilbo warned, but Thorin’s answer sent a shiver through his heart.

“I sincerely doubt that, my burglar.”

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply, and then shut it. Thorin had said _my burglar_. And Bilbo… Bilbo liked the way that sounded. A thought occurred to him. Oh. _Oh_. Well. That certainly complicated things. He was in love with the dwarf king. He had been for some time, probably even before the goblin caves. That was why he felt so driven to protect him, why his true form fought so hard to come out when Thorin was in danger. Was it possible that… Thorin was his life-mate? Was _that_ what this feeling was? But of course, it didn’t matter. There was no question of Thorin reciprocating, not once he knew what Bilbo truly was. With a pang, he acknowledged the feeling, and tucked it away to analyze later. Best not to dwell on it now, they had some friends to rescue.

They hurried through the palace, dodging out of sight when elves hurried by, but Bilbo thought they probably could have strolled down the middle of the great hall and still go unnoticed. The place resembled a kicked anthill, boiling over with elves racing towards the main exit. Bilbo hoped they’d run in circles for a while longer, just until he could get his friends to safety.

 

It was surprisingly easy to find the cells where the others were being kept- all Bilbo had to do was follow the noise. Thorin’s company was making an enormous racket, no doubt trying to annoy the elves as much as they could. Bilbo heard a few crying out for them to return Thorin, or to come back and fight like a dwarf, or a few other demands, but mostly they were shouting insults in Khuzdul.

“Quiet!” Thorin called, once they came into view. The result was instant. Then, out of the silence, Bilbo heard Kili ask “Thorin?”

“Hang on,” Bilbo ordered, looking around for something to open the cages with, and coming up empty. “Ah, confound it. We don’t have the keys.”

“Can’t you just pick the locks?” someone, maybe Bofur, asked.

“No,” Nori said sadly from further down the row of cells. “These locks are magicked. They melt your picks.” He held up a sad looking lump of metal that Bilbo surmised had once been his set of lockpicks. Bilbo was grateful to the dwarf- it saved him from having to admit that he didn’t know how to pick locks. After all, if he encountered one, he could just melt it. That wouldn’t work here though, not without giving his secret away.

“Alright, Bilbo, you go and look for them,” Thorin ordered. “I will remain here, in case the guard returns.” Bilbo nodded and turned, racing down the hall as silently as he could, looking for the keys.

They were in luck. Bilbo found the keys attached to a very drunk elf who had passed out in the wine cellar. He also found their way out- there were empty barrels lined up and ready for shipment, presumably down the river to Laketown- a town of men that lived on the lake in the shadow of Erebor. With effort, he freed the dwarves and convinced them to climb in the barrels. Then he managed to get them all out through the trap door in the floor before jumping into the river himself.

 

The journey downstream was uneventful, if you didn’t count the waterfalls, though there were several times Bilbo thought he heard fighting from deeper within the forest. Whatever it was, it wasn’t their problem- they had enough trouble of their own. He could also smell orcs in the vicinity, which did not bode well for anyone. Even if the enemy was weakened by the loss of the ring, he still had massive armies to call upon. The thought that he might send them after Bilbo and the dwarves was chilling, so the dragon pushed it as far from his mind as he could. Instead, he turned to worrying about a different matter- namely, how to defeat Smaug. Every time he glanced up, the mountain was there, looming, and he knew that the fire-drake was inside. Somehow, the whole thing seemed so much more real, floating down stream in a barrel and staring at the Lonely Mountain, than it had months ago in his snug little hobbit hole.

He knew he would have to fight the other dragon, that much was a given. He’d signed on to the mission with the thought of avenging his family, but now the time was drawing near, and it terrified him. He hadn’t been in his true form for hundreds of years. Hadn’t flown in thousands- and it was sure to be an areal battle at least in some part. He didn’t know if he had the skills to defeat Smaug on his own, but if he didn’t, if he failed…. If he failed, Thorin and the others would die. That thought haunted him all the way to Laketown, where the barrel-riding dwarves were fished out of the water by wary men. It followed him as they were brought before the master, and echoed in the songs the lake-men began to sing when they heard who they were. While the dwarves feasted with the men, Bilbo found himself outside on a balcony, staring at the mountain, both hoping for and dreading a glimpse of scarlet wings on the night sky.

“I did not see you at the feast, Master Baggins,” Thorin said from behind him, startling Bilbo out of his reverie.

“Oh, I, uh, that is… I’m not really hungry,” he stammered, blushing at how silly he sounded.

“Is that so?” Thorin came to sit next to him. “Then I suppose I brought this out for nothing, then?” He held out a plate heaped with good food, waving it in front of Bilbo’s nose.

“Oh.” He could smell the meat, and the spices used to cook it with, and suddenly his stomach growled and he felt ravenous. “Well, I suppose I could manage something, then. Since you went to the trouble.” Bilbo took the plate and, ignoring Thorin’s pleased smirk, dug in. When he finished, Thorin was still there. They sat in companionable silence for a while, both watching the mountain intently for any sign of life.

“It was beautiful, once,” Thorin said abruptly, breaking the silence.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, I imagine it was,” Bilbo said, and found he had been watching Thorin’s face in the flickering firelight instead of the mountain before them. “But it will be again, won’t it? Once Smaug is gone, we can rebuild.”

“We?” Thorin turned to him with a small, genuine smile on his lips. “Do you intend to stay, then?”

“Well…” Bilbo hadn’t really thought about it, more focused on the fight than what would come after, but now that he thought about it, he couldn’t really imagine returning to the Shire after all this. “I suppose so, at least for a bit, if you’ll have me. I’d like to see it the way you talk about it, full of light and people.” Thorin was about to reply when another thought hit, sending the warm happy image of living in Erebor with his dwarves sinking to the pits of his stomach. Thorin probably wouldn’t want another dragon, even a benevolent one, living in his mountain. “Um, as long as I’m welcome of course. I- I’ll understand if you’d rather not. I mean, I-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin cut him off with a large, warm hand on his shoulder. “We would be honored- _I_ would be honored if you choose to remain in Erebor. If you stay, you shall have a place of high esteem amongst my kind.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo was equal parts touched and saddened. Thorin was making this gesture to Bilbo-the-hobbit. He would certainly not be saying the same to Bilbo-the-dragon. His heart broke a little more with that knowledge. “I… There’s something about me you don’t know. Something that, well, something you probably won’t like. You won’t want me living in your mountain once you know.”

Thorin had the nerve to chuckle at him. Chuckle! When he was trying to tell him something important. “I cannot think of a single thing that would make you any less welcome in my kingdom, Bilbo. You have already earned a place there by saving my life and those of my kin many times over. We could not have gotten this far if not for you, I promise you I will not forget that.”

“I… Thorin, it’s…” Bilbo floundered, trying to find a way to say it that wouldn’t give away his secret. He couldn’t tell him, not yet. “Don’t make that promise, not when you don’t know.”

“Then tell me,” the dwarf said, watching Bilbo with wide, expectant eyes. “I assure you, it will not change how I think of you.”

Bilbo shook his head and stood. Sitting there, seeing Thorin, his life-mate (and he knew for sure now, there could be no doubt when seeing him caused such pleasure and such pain) watching him with such confidence that nothing could ever change how he thought of him… it was too much. He _couldn’t_ tell him yet. Not until the dragon was dead. “I… I can’t, Thorin. Not yet. But- but when Smaug is dead, when we’ve gotten back your mountain, I’ll tell you then. I promise.” With that he turned, and fled inside.

 

“You’re the one traveling with the dwarves, aren’t you?” the grim looking man that had fished them out of the water approached Bilbo as he sat by the fire, hiding from Thorin. “Master…?”

“Baggins. Bilbo Baggins.” Bilbo politely offered his hand to shake, though he wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

“Bard. The Bargeman.” The man slid into the chair next to Bilbo, and Bilbo tried to hide his annoyance. “Pardon my rudeness, but I have to ask- what are you? You clearly aren’t a dwarf, but you aren’t a man or an elf either.”

Now Bilbo scowled. He wasn’t so much offended by the question, but the necessity of the lie he would have to say in answer. “I’m a hobbit, from the Shire, on the other side of the Misty Mountains.”

“Ah. Again, my apologies. May I ask, then, what you are doing this far to the east?”

Bilbo’s scowl grew. “I’m helping Thorin and the others retake the mountain.” Wasn’t that obvious?

“But you have no personal connection to the quest?” Bard leaned in, eyes earnest. “Perhaps I can convince you of the futility of this quest.”

“Why? You don’t think we can do it?”

“I think you will wake the dragon. And it will kill you. And I think, when it kills you, it will fall on this town and destroy it.”

“I understand,” Bilbo said, and he did, the man was afraid for his people, but this was something they had to do. “But with all due respect, you don’t know us. We _can_ do this.”

“There are just fourteen of you. Against a _dragon_. My ancestor, Girion, fought that dragon. Even his black arrows could not pierce its armor. What makes you think this will be any different?” Bard was frowning at Bilbo now, his voice rising.

“Because they have me. And I’ll make sure they won’t fail,” Bilbo said with confidence he didn’t feel.

Bard scoffed. “And why do you help them? You are no dwarf, you have no stake in this.”

Bilbo stood, face going red in anger. He couldn’t speak, it was a struggle just to keep his flames from bursting out to burn the man. He’d been through so much, rescued his friends from the elves, floated down a river in a _barrel_ , had that conversation with Thorin, and now this man presumed to lecture him on his reasons for entering the mountain? He turned on his heels and left.

 

The next morning, they were sent off with fanfare. Bilbo noticed Bard watching with a scowl, and resisted the urge to make a rude gesture.

They reached the desolation of the dragon abruptly. One minute, there was grass, and the next nothing but dead leaves and smoking ground. Bilbo felt the change physically, staggering against Dwalin as the scent of his enemy overpowered him.

“You okay, lad?” Dwalin asked, steadying him.

“I… yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. It just.. What is that _smell_?”

“That would be the dragon,” Bofur said helpfully. “Poisoning the land with it’s fumes.”

“Oh. Alright. That… makes sense.” Bilbo shook his head to clear it. This was only the beginning, it would be much worse further in. With a pang, he thought of how flowers and plants grew better around his own people, even his little garden on Bag End was flourishing because of the influence of his magic. But Smaug and the other Uruloki, they only had the power to destroy. The ambient magic that seeped from their bodies poisoned and burned, while Bilbo’s encouraged growth and life. Walking into the wasteland made from Smaug’s power was like going from a cool climate to a burning desert- it hit like a punch in the gut. It took Bilbo a minute before he adjusted, and they could move on.

They made good time after that, reaching the foot of the mountain with little trouble. As they progressed, Bilbo adjusted to the fumes and the scent of the dragon. After some time, he had to think about it to smell it. But it was still there, still affecting him, and the others noticed. They kept offering him arms to lean on, forcing him to drink water, or giving him food. That night they camped at the foot of the mountain, and Bilbo found he couldn’t sleep. They might find the secret entrance the next day, and then… then he’d have to go inside the mountain, and fight Smaug.

He didn’t know if he could do it. That was the real kicker. He’d come all this way with the purpose of killing Smaug, and he didn’t know if he could. He’d been small, the last time he’d taken his true form. It had been thousands of years. Smaug was centuries older than he was, and had the added benefit of spending the last several thousand years as a dragon. Sure, the worms of Morgoth couldn’t shapeshift the way Bilbo could, but that was little help in an areal battle. He hadn’t used his wings for more than gliding since he was two hundred years old. How was he supposed to fight in the air? And it was sure to be in the air, Smaug would fight to his strengths. He’d been worried about that before, but now, with the evil fumes making him feel weak and shaky, it seemed like even more of a long shot.

The one thing that helped him calm down was watching Thorin. The dwarf was currently on watch, back to the fire. The flames flickered off the beads in his hair, and if Bilbo shifted just a little he could see his face in profile. He looked so majestic, so… sure of himself. His eyes were locked on the mountain, watching with such sadness, but also now with hope. He believed that with just thirteen dwarves and a hobbit they could take back the mountain. He didn’t even know how much power they had, and still he believed. And maybe, maybe if he could believe, then so could Bilbo.

 

The sun was high when Bilbo woke. Bombur was with him, cooking the company’s next meal, while the others ranged across the side of the mountain, searching for the hidden door. Bilbo yawned and stretched, looking around the empty camp site. “Why’d you let me sleep?”

“You looked like you needed it,” Bombur told him. “Thorin said to let you rest, and when you woke up to tell you to come help up on the mountain.”

“ _Thorin_ said to let me rest?” Bilbo blinked, surprised. He would have thought Thorin would want everyone up searching the mountain.

Bombur shrugged. “Aye. Breakfast?”

After a breakfast so late it was nearly lunch, Bilbo went to go find Thorin. He was far up the side of the mountain, tapping on the stone, trying to find a way in.

“Any luck?” Bilbo asked, and had the satisfaction of seeing Thorin jump.

“Hm? Bilbo. No, nothing yet.”

“Well, let me help.” Bilbo moved closer to the wall and started looking. It was good he did, because he was the one that found the staircase up. He could feel the air flowing down it, carrying more of the dragon’s stench. It led him up to the ledge, where they supposed the secret door would be. The keyhole wasn’t obvious, but it was not yet Durin’s day. So they moved their camp up to the ledge, and settled in to wait. Days passed, with Thorin and the others searching constantly for the keyhole, but nothing could be found. Every night Bilbo fell asleep watching Thorin against the firelight, wondering if the next day would be the day.

And then the day finally came. Bilbo had been sitting by the door when a thrush flew past, landing on a rock close to where he felt the worst of the dragon fumes. It carried a snail shell in it’s beak, and as Bilbo watched, it began to knock. Three times, it knocked the shell against the stone, even as the sun fell behind the mountains. And then the moon came out, a single ray breaking through the clouds to shine on an indent in the rock. And there was the keyhole.

Thorin opened the door, and a waft of dragon-fumes billowed out. The stench was overpowering to Bilbo’s sensitive nose, and even the dwarves brought hands up to cover their faces. Thorin grimaced in disgust, then looked back at the others, at Bilbo, with a question in his eyes. The dragon nodded and came forward, taking those first steps into the mountain together.

It was dark inside. Dark, and filled to the brim with dragon-fumes. The minute he crossed the threshold, Bilbo could smell him. Not just his fumes, but _him_ , the worm himself. The scent set his blood to boiling. His true form tugged at his mind, demanding to be let out. Bloodlust screamed within him, compelling him to avenge his family, and do it _now_. He didn’t realize it, but his eyes adjusted themselves, shifting until he could see in the dark as well as if it were daylight. Under his clothes, scales started to appear, and his wings started to force themselves out of his back. With an effort he forced it down and turned to Thorin.

“Alright,” he said. “It’s time for me to do my job.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin reached out and grabbed his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bilbo tried a smile, but it felt fake. “I’m fine. Ready to do this.”

“You don’t have to do this, lad,” Balin told him. “You’ve more than fulfilled your contract.”

“No. I do. I have to go down there. I- I’ll be back before you know it.” The cheer in his voice was as forced as his smile, and he could tell the dwarves knew it, but none of them said anything. Bilbo nodded once, decisively. “Right. Then, yeah. This is it. Wish me luck.” With another fake smile, he turned and headed down the tunnel.

“Bilbo,” Thorin called, and he turned back. “Good luck.” Bilbo waved. A few more steps and the tunnel turned, and he was out of their sight.

 

He walked into Smaug’s lair in hobbit form. He had hoped that perhaps the worm wouldn’t recognize his scent, but he was wrong. Smaug was wide awake and waiting when Bilbo stepped out of the tunnel. The gold of his eyes was the first thing Bilbo saw in the chamber, brighter even than the gold at his feet.

“So. The little dragon has come to see me. I felt you on my mountain and wondered when you would come to me. What do you desire, child? Do you wish to join me, share in my hoard?”

“No,” Bilbo felt his wings burst from his back, spines shredding his clothing as he took on his true form for the first time in centuries. “I came for revenge.” A swipe of his claws shook the remains of his tattered clothes and dropped them to the floor. He stretched, and joints that hadn’t been used for thousands of years cracked.

Smaug laughed. “I see now. The little child of Eru that I didn’t kill. Revenge is it?” He laughed again, a cold, cruel sound. “Then come and get it, if you can.”

Bilbo responded with a roar that shook the mountain. Up above, his dwarves looked at each other and went running. They reached the treasure chamber just in time to see a dragon leaping after Smaug, over a pile of clothes that had once belonged to Bilbo.

 

They fought each other with tooth and claw, gouging great chunks from each other’s hides. To his surprise Bilbo found that he was bigger than Smaug, but that counted for very little in the tight spaces of Erebor’s halls. Snarling, growling, and roaring, they tore their way through the halls to the entrance. Bilbo felt his tail hit something, maybe a column, and shatter it. Something else crunched under his feet as he ricocheted off the wall to kick at Smaug with his hind claws. Smaug’s wings destroyed a whole row of columns, and their fires burnt anything in their path. Bilbo screamed in pain as Smaug’s claws tore into his flesh, scattering amber scales with his blood. Smaug roared in response, Bilbo’s fangs sunk deep into his shoulder. They reached the gates and burst into the sky.

Once free of the confines of the mountain, Smaug took to the sky. Bilbo flapped his wings and launched himself after him, taking to the air as if he’d never left it. They lit the clouds with their fire as they fought, tumbling over and over in the sky. Below them, Bilbo’s dwarves rushed from the mountain, standing on an overlook where they could see the battle. Bilbo caught a glimpse of them, before they were out over the lake, and he had no time to think of anything other than the enemy.

Smaug’s claws caught in Bilbo’s chest plate and he roared. He flipped them over in the air, latching on to Smaug’s belly scales with his hind claws. Tangled together, they crashed into Laketown, sending up gouts of water to swamp the rickety wooden houses. They thrashed, and each tail took out another building. Fire shot from Smaug’s throat, engulfing a row of houses when Bilbo ducked. Bilbo’s flames, hotter by far, hit the other dragon and flared out around him, taking out more houses on each side. Around them, the people of the town panicked and ran. At first the fight was almost equal- Bilbo’s strength and size balanced against Smaug’s skill and experience. If it had been a quick battle, maybe Bilbo could have won. But once it began to drag on, Bilbo’s size became a drawback, his inexperience catching up as his stamina began to give out. Smaug still had power in him, each wound only making him angrier. But each wound he dealt to Bilbo only sapped more of the younger dragon’s strength. He was going to lose. He was going to fail, and then Smaug would turn on his dwarves.

With a roar, he thrashed again, splashing water onto the fires as he lunged at Smaug and bit, the coppery taste of blood filling his mouth even as the elder dragon smashed his tail into Bilbo’s head. Dazed, Bilbo fell back and Smaug reared up to deliver the final blow. That was when Bilbo saw Bard standing atop a smoldering house with a bow in his hand and a gigantic metal arrow.

“Bard!”

“Who’s there?” Bard shouted, arrow trained on the fighting dragons.

“It’s me! Bilbo!” Bilbo called as he dodged Smaug’s attack.

“Bilbo? Where are you?”

“No time to explain,” Bilbo dodged another blow, this one landing far to close to his head for comfort. “His chest, I’ll make a hole. Aim for it.”

Smaug swung his head, looking for whoever Bilbo was talking to. Bilbo took that moment of distraction to attack, jumping onto Smaug’s back and reaching around with all four sets of claws, trying to pry a scale lose for Bard to shoot. All it would take was one well-placed shot, and it would be over. There. One of the scales over Smaug’s heart was loose, whether from the fight or some ancient battle, Bilbo didn’t know. It didn’t matter. What did was that he could dig his claws under it, pulling it off and leaving a clear path for Bard’s arrow.

Smaug screamed in rage as the scale came free, bucking and hitting Bilbo with powerful blows from his tail until the younger dragon fell off. Bilbo twisted as he fell and jumped when he hit something solid- maybe a dock or the remains of a house, pushing himself into the air. Smaug followed, and Bilbo led him in a circle above Bard’s head, hoping the bargeman would shoot at Smaug first, and give Bilbo some time to get away. He heard the twang of a bow, and then Smaug screamed behind him. Bilbo looked back to see Smaug fall, the blazing lights of his eyes going dim and then flickering out. His magical presence no longer intruded on Bilbo’s senses. He was dead.

An arrow bounced off Bilbo’s hide, and he saw Bard now turning his bow on him. Exhausted from his wounds, Bilbo flew towards where he knew Thorin was- because wherever Thorin was was the place he felt safest. He didn’t make it. Just before he reached the mountain, his wings gave out and he crashed to the ground. Exhausted, bleeding from multiple wounds, Bilbo passed out.

 

He woke to daylight, and voices.

“I think it fell somewhere over here.”

“Remind me why we’re looking for this thing again? If it didn’t come back to the mountain, it’s probably dead.”

“We need to make sure. If it’s not, it’s probably so we can kill it, and avenge Bilbo.”

Avenge? He didn’t need avenging. He’d gotten his vengeance. He just… needed rest. And for everything to stop hurting. He was so, so tired. Too tired to even shift back to hobbit form, or lift his head. Hobbit form… hobbit… oh. He was still in dragon shape. The dwarves didn’t know he was the dragon. They were probably coming to kill him, thinking their hobbit was dead. Bilbo was so exhausted that the thought didn’t even frighten him. He just rolled his head a little until one great green-gold eye was focused on the spot the voices were coming from.

“There it is!” Kili came up over a hill and stopped dead, staring at Bilbo. Fili followed him, and then Bofur. Bilbo watched them draw their weapons with tired resignation. They hesitated though, just out of range of his claws, if he’d been feeling well enough to attack. Staring at him, at his wounds, and the puddle of blood surrounding him.

“If you’re going to kill me, can you do it quickly so I can go back to sleep?” Bilbo asked, and saw the dwarves jump and go pale. “Please?” he added plaintively, when no one moved. Too tired to keep his eyes open any more, he let them slide shut, blocking out a view of Kili’s frown.

One of them stepped forward, Bilbo could hear his movements, but then Kili said “Wait. I know that voice.”

Bilbo sighed and cracked his eye open again to see the younger prince holding his brother back.

“Kili, this thing killed Bilbo,” Fili said.

“No, your brother’s right,” Bofur told him. He strode right up to Bilbo’s eye and looked into it. “Who are you?”

“You won’t believe me,” Bilbo said tiredly. “Just get it over with.” Without turning his head, he rolled over and exposed the great gashes Smaug had left across his chest- easy entry for a sword or spear to kill him.

“Bilbo?” Bofur asked incredulously, followed by a gasp from Fili and Kili. “Is- is that you?”

Bilbo hummed an affirmative. “Yes, it’s me. Now please, kill me or don’t but make up your minds. I’m really very tired.”

“Bilbo…” Kili came closer, resting a hand on one of the few undamaged parts of his hide. “So, those stories you told us, about the Dragon of Eru? That was you?”

“Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Bilbo closed his eyes again. This talking, even doing it mentally, was sapping every last bit of his energy.

“Bilbo? Bilbo!” Kili, and then Fili and Bofur, called his name but it just seemed like too much effort to respond. He passed out again.

 

The next time Bilbo woke, Fili, Kili, and Bofur were seated by his head, talking quietly. He tried to focus on their voices, exhausted still but not wanting to go back to sleep.

“Can we bring Oin over? Maybe he can help,” Kili was saying.

“What can he do for a dragon, though? Do we even know how to heal dragons? And we’ll have to convince him first. If we just bring him without telling him, it could be bad,” Fili told them.

“It’s worth a shot though,” Bofur said. “It’s not like we have any other options.”

Kili sighed. “He’s so badly wounded though… do you think…?”

“He’ll be fine, lad,” Bofur said, but he didn’t sound confident. “Dragons are hearty creatures. You’ll see.”

“We should tell Thorin. He’ll want to be here, if… well, if anything happens,” Fili suggested.

“No!” Kili cried. “No, you know he’ll just try to kill Bilbo. We’ll need to break it to him gently.”

“Well,” Bofur sighed, “we’re gonna have to tell him some time. Might as well be now.”

Bilbo’s eyes snapped open. “Thorin?” he asked, “You’re going to tell Thorin?”

“Aye,” Bofur nodded. “That seems like the best option. Unless you don’t want us to, of course.”

“I… no, no, I think you should tell him. He should know. I… I want to see him.” He didn’t add ‘before the end’, though he was thinking it. He wasn’t quite sure how he was even still awake, he’d lost so much blood and was losing more by the second. Everything was so cold, and he was so, so tired.

“Good,” Bofur nodded and stood, using a hand on Bilbo’s jaw to pull himself to his feet. “Come on, Fili. Kili, you stay here and-”

Bilbo’s eyes went wide as the wind blew a familiar scent into his nose. He must have made some sound, because all three dwarves turned to stare at him. “He’s here,” Bilbo told them. “Thorin.”

“Fili! Kili! Get back! Get way from that _thing_.” Thorin came over the hill, yelling, sword drawn. Bilbo shivered and tried to hide his head behind Bofur- there was hate in Thorin’s voice.

“Thorin, wait!” Kili ran to him, tugging on his arm when his uncle kept right on charging. “Wait!”

“No,” Thorin snarled. “That _worm_ killed Bilbo!”

Fili rushed to his brother’s aid, grabbing Thorin’s other arm to slow him down. “No, no he didn’t! Uncle, no!”

“Get off, _Ibzig zu_!” Thorin raged, shaking his sister-sons from his arms. Bilbo watched, still too tired to move, as Thorin came closer to his exposed chest.

“No, Thorin, that’s Bilbo!” Bofur yelled, stepping bodily in front of the charging king. “That’s Bilbo, Thorin! _Bilbo_!”

“What?” Bofur’s words were just enough to shock Thorin into stopping. He stared, incredulously, between Bofur, Fili and Kili, and Bilbo. Then his expression cleared and he glared at Bilbo. “This creature has you bewitched. Bilbo is _dead_.”

“He will be, if you kill this dragon,” Fili said bravely, moving to stand next to Bofur. “Uncle, please, listen to us. Bilbo isn’t a hobbit. He’s the Dragon of Eru, the one he was telling us stories about. This is him, Uncle. This is Bilbo.”

“No, that cannot be,” Thorin said, but he lowered his blade.

“I said you didn’t know everything about me,” Bilbo told him quietly. “That there was a reason you wouldn’t want me living in Erebor. Well, this is it.” He sighed, and a sudden shiver wracked his body, spattering fresh blood on the ground as the movement re-opened barely closed wounds. “Not that it makes much difference, in the end.”

“Why wouldn’t it make a difference?” Thorin asked, now stepping tentatively closer, one hand raised as if to touch.

“I’m not likely to live to see you crowned,” Bilbo admitted, one clawed foot smearing some of the blood on the ground around him. His eyes were already growing heavy again. “But,” he sighed, “Smaug is dead. My family is avenged and your mountain is yours again. That’s… that’s enough.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Thorin snapped. “Of course it’s not enough. Not without you. You _can’t_ die.” He stopped, and a soft gasp reached Bilbo’s ears. “It really is you, isn’t it?”

Bilbo moved his head just slightly, until Thorin’s palm was almost touching him. “It’s me. I… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.”

Grief took over Thorin’s face, replacing the anger of minutes before. “Bilbo, no. I… understand. You were worried about how I would react.”

“I suppose I was. And… one other thing.”

“What’s that?” Thorin was leaning closer now, so, so close to touching him, but not quite.

“My kind… we mate for life. And… I never told you how we choose our mates. It’s a feeling, a bond between two people. Like love, but… stronger. And, Thorin… you’re mine.”

“Bilbo…” Thorin breathed. “I…”

“It’s okay,” Bilbo sighed and turned his head, closing his eyes. “I’m just glad I got to see you again.”

“No!” Thorin cried, pressing his hand to Bilbo’s hide. “You _will not die._ Not now. Not when I’ve found you, _Amrâlimê._ ” Bilbo lost consciousness to the sound of Thorin’s anguished cry, and the feel of warm hands gently touching his face.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it doesn't end here. I don't do sad endings. But if you'd rather pretend it does, feel free to stop here. There will be feels and then fluff next chapter. 
> 
> *Ibzig zu!- damn you
> 
> *Amrâlimê- my love


	4. Questions, Answers, and a Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. This thing turned out far, far longer than I had expected when I started it. Thank you for sticking with it, and I really hope you enjoy it! This is the final chapter, but a short epilogue will be going up in the next couple of days, which will be mostly fluff. Also, if you have a minute, I've got a question in the end-notes that is important to another fic I'm working on, and I'd really appreciate any input you could give.
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who commented! I love hearing from you! 
> 
> You can also find me on [my tumblr](wanderingalicewrites.tumblr.com%22) if you want to chat!

When Bilbo woke up again, he was covered in what felt like all the blankets in Erebor. Many hands pressed on blankets over the worst of his wounds, while someone else was sitting with his head in their lap, gently and patiently wiping the blood from his snout. Oin was issuing orders briskly by his ear, and somewhere nearby Bilbo could hear water boiling over a fire. Everything hurt, from the tip of his nose all the way down to his tail. He shifted, and all his muscles screamed at him. Bilbo fervently hoped he would _never_ have to fight another dragon again. Or at least, if he did, he could have several hundred years of training first.

Cracking an eyelid revealed that the day was much too bright. The sun was in the wrong position for it to be afternoon, therefore he must have slept through the night without waking. Well, he had certainly needed the sleep. Opening his other eye brought him face-to-eye with Thorin, who had somehow managed to maneuver under Bilbo’s head and now sat cross-legged under his chin. He looked up at the movement, and Bilbo watched the tense lines of his face soften with relief.

“Bilbo.” He smiled, bringing a hand up to rest on Bilbo’s cheek.

“Hello,” Bilbo finally said, unable to find anything else to say in the face of that gaze. There was something… something fluttering at the edges of his consciousness, centered around that touch. It felt… nice. Nicer than anything else in the world.

“I thought I had lost you,” Thorin told him, meeting his gaze seriously. “When you fainted, we thought you had died. Oin said your injuries were too great, that you could not survive.”

“You started to get better around nightfall,” Kili said from somewhere behind Bilbo’s head. “Oin can’t explain it, which is driving him had.”

“It’s Mahal’s blessing,” Fili came into view with a cauldron full of water. “That’s the only explanation.”

Bilbo hummed in agreement and dipped his tongue into the water when Fili placed it before him. Suddenly he realized he was parched, and couldn’t lap up the water fast enough. Behind him, Kili giggled. When Bilbo turned his head to focus one eye on the youngest prince, Kili held up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry, it’s just, you look like a cat doing that.”

Bilbo snorted, then winced when the movement sent pain shooting through his body. “I look like a dragon. If I were a cat, I’d be furry.”

“It’s a shame you aren’t cat-sized, though,” Oin said, walking around to stand beside Thorin. “We could sew up the worst of your wounds then. As it is, I don’t think we have a needle big enough, and I’m still not convinced you aren’t going to bleed out on us, the way these gashes keep opening up when you move.”

Bilbo paused. “Huh. Hang on…” a thought was presenting itself to him, he just needed time to analyze it.

“Bilbo?” Thorin asked, alarmed.

“Shh,” Bilbo shushed him, still thinking. “Smaller. I don’t know… I can’t shift back to hobbit. I don’t know where most of this body goes, I don’t want to suddenly have my intestines bleeding or something. But maybe…” he tugged on his magic, and suddenly he was shrinking. Slowly at first, and then faster, until he lay curled up in Thorin’s lap, roughly the size of a large house cat.

While everyone else gaped, Oin nodded sharply. “Good enough. Fili, go get me that needle. Sterilize it in the fire first, lad. Ori, I need my kit. The rest of you, go find bandages and start boiling more water!” The dwarves rushed to do as he commanded, leaving blood-soaked blankets where they’d fallen as Bilbo’s hide had shrunk away from them. Only one covered him now, and Thorin carefully tucked it tighter around him. Oin sat down in front of them and frowned at Bilbo.

“Ideally, I’d move you inside, but we’re not going to get a cleaner environment than out here at the moment and I’m not sure your body can take the journey back to Erebor.”

“Set up a tent,” Thorin suggested. “We have enough supplies with us, it shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t want to take risks with him.” A hesitant hand stroked up and down one of Bilbo’s spines, the motion soothing both of them. Bilbo tried to pay attention to the conversation, but the pain was _very_ distracting. It felt like every inch of his hide had been shredded. His wings were a mass of fire, and he desperately hoped the membrane wasn’t torn beyond repair- he’d found that, even in the battle, he _really_ liked flying.

Fili and Ori arrived with Oin’s kit, and whatever conversation Oin and Thorin had been having was put on hold as Bilbo was carefully moved until the healer could easily reach the worst of his wounds. Then Oin got to work cleansing and then closing each long gash and bite. Mercifully, Bilbo fainted again halfway through the first one. As far as he was concerned, he wished he would have passed out at the first stitch- getting mauled by Smaug didn’t even hurt that much at the time.

 

When he finally returned to consciousness, it was night. Bilbo opened his eyes and found he was wrapped in bandages and held tightly in Thorin’s arms. The dwarf himself was sleeping in a hastily-erected tent, still in armor that had been spattered with Bilbo’s blood. The dragon wrinkled his nose at that, slightly disgusted but also touched that Thorin was that worried about him- normally the king was much more careful with his armor. Tentatively he stretched, and found that, while everything still hurt, it hurt a great deal less than it had before. The stitches pulled when he moved, but the bandages remained clean and white. He was ravenous.

Some kind soul had left a plate of food for him, next to a bowl of water. Careful not to wake Thorin, Bilbo climbed across his dwarf and onto the table, where he devoted his attention to the meal. When he’d had his fill, he then turned and crawled back onto Thorin’s chest and curled into a ball in the crook of his arm. Contented, he dozed, watching the torch-light flicker and dance against the walls of the tent.

Morning brought a burst of hastily-muffled noise as Fili and Kili spilled into the tent. The pair shushed each other and tiptoed carefully over to Thorin. Bilbo raised his head and attempted a smile for them. It didn’t work as well on his snout as it had on his hobbit-face, but they seemed to get the idea and grinned back.

“How are you? Better?” Kili asked in a whisper.

“Getting there,” Bilbo murmured, equally quiet. “I don’t feel half as bad as I did yesterday.” It was true. He was healing at an alarming rate, far faster than normal. He didn’t remember his people healing this fast, but then, he had been very young when they died. Maybe Gandalf would know.

“Oin still can’t believe it. He said you lost so much blood you should have died.” Fili told him, settling down on the ground next to the cot.

“He’s happy about it, but he can’t believe it,” Kili added.

“Is it a dragon thing?” Fili asked, leaning forward.

Bilbo shrugged, then regretted it when the motion pulled on one of the worst gashes across his shoulder. “I don’t know. We could ask Gandalf, if he ever shows up.”

“How can you not know?” Kili demanded, and was shushed by Bilbo and Fili.

“I was barely two hundred when my parents were killed,” Bilbo reminded them. “I didn’t get the chance to learn much, and it’s been three ages since then. I’ve forgotten whatever I did know.”

“I’m sorry,” Kili looked down. “I forgot.”

“No harm done,” Bilbo told him. “I suppose you have a lot of questions.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Thorin rumbled from underneath him. Bilbo jumped in surprise and nearly fell. Thorin’s warm hands came up to steady him, holding him carefully as the dwarf king sat up. In moments, he was resettled in Thorin’s lap while Fili and Kili shifted up to sit on the cot next to Thorin.

“Good morning,” Bilbo said, when they’d all finished moving. Thorin smiled down at him, and the dragon felt his scales warm in a blush.

“Oin predicted you wouldn’t wake until nightfall. I am pleased he was wrong. Again.” The last was said in the direction of the healer, who was just at that moment opening the tent flap.

Oin harrumphed and frowned at Thorin. “I’d like to see anyone else do better.”

“Thank you, Oin.” Bilbo tried another smile, and it seemed to work better. Oin inclined his head in acknowledgment and came over to check Bilbo’s bandages.

“So, I’ve got to ask, were you planning on telling us who you were, eventually?” Kili wanted to know. Bilbo hissed in pain as Oin prodded one of his wounds, then sighed.

“I wanted to tell you. I just wasn’t sure how you all would take it. I’d planned on telling you after Smaug was dead. Then, if you didn’t want me around, I would have just gone back to the Shire.”

“Did you always plan on fighting Smaug alone?” Fili asked. “Did… did you know you would win?”

“I ah…” Bilbo’s scales darkened a few shades in embarrassment. “I wasn’t sure, actually. I haven’t actually fought another dragon before. And, and I figured I’d have Gandalf with me too. And the company, of course.”

“You didn’t think the dragon would take to the sky?” Thorin demanded. “Or did you intend to ground him somehow?”

“Well…I really hadn’t planned that far ahead. I didn’t really know how big I would be, or how strong Smaug was. I was… I was kind of hoping he’d be dead. Or sick. Or, or something. I mean, obviously, I’m not that good a fighter. So, so I didn’t really know what to do.” With each word, Thorin got more tense beneath him, until he burst out in an angry growl.

“ _Allâkh_! Of all the-! Bilbo! Have I taught you nothing? In all our sword lessons, what did I say? _Never_ go into battle without a plan. It will likely fall apart, but if you don’t have a plan _to_ fall apart you are asking to fail.”

Bilbo turned his head to level a glare at Thorin. “Well excuse me! Next time _you_ fight a dragon, you tell _me_ what the plan is!”

“Uh, Bilbo…” Kili said hesitantly. “You’re, uh, you’re turning red.”

“Red?” Bilbo looked back down at himself, and sure enough, his hide was a deep brownish-red. “Well, what color am I normally?” Even as he asked, the scales on his chest faded back to a honey-amber color. “Huh. Look at that.”

“You… didn’t know what color you were?” Fili asked, and Bilbo shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. Dragons don’t settle on color until after their first millennium, and I’ve been a hobbit since I was maybe 500.”

“You spent the past three ages as a hobbit?” Kili asked.

Bilbo shrugged. “I.. Yeah. It was… safer. And then, after a while, it felt more normal.”

The tent flap opened again, and Bofur stuck his head in. “Good morning, what’s going on?”

“Bilbo’s answering questions about being a dragon!” Kili responded. “Come on, what do you want to know? So far, we know he’s been a hobbit for the past three ages, he didn’t have a plan for fighting Smaug, and his skin turns red when he gets angry.”

“Well now,” Bofur joined the gathering, sitting at Thorin’s feet. “How about… how many shapes can you shift into?”

“I-” Bilbo’s answer was cut off when Gloin barreled into the tent.

“Question time’s gonna have to wait. We’ve got survivors from Lake-town streaming into Dale. They’re going to come over here when they see us. We need to hide Bilbo. Now.”

“Right,” Thorin stood, Bilbo still in his arms. The dragon protested, the movement hurting every wound on his body. “Shhh, _ghivashuh_ ,” Thorin soothed him, holding him tighter. “Oin, can he make it back to the mountain?”

“I don’t know,” Oin admitted, coming closer. “He’s healing well, but I don’t know-”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” a loud voice called from outside the tent. “Is that you in there?”

Thorin transferred Bilbo into the healer’s arms and signed for them to stay in the tent before turning and going outside. The physical separation was painful, in more ways than one. Suddenly, every single patch of his hide hurt worse, and a few of the deeper gouges opened up and started bleeding. A soft moan escaped his throat, and sent Oin into a flurry of action.

Outside, Bilbo could hear Thorin talking quietly to someone, and then louder, demanding to know what was going on when first Fili and then Kili ran out to get more bandages or boil water. Bofur, he cornered when the dwarf stepped out to get out of the way in the small tent. On the table against the wall of the tent, Bilbo could clearly hear the conversation.

“What’s going on?”

“It’s Bilbo, he’s…”

“Bilbo? The hobbit?” a third voice asked, and Bilbo rather thought it sounded like Bard but he was a bit too distracted by the pain of whatever Oin was doing to his side to be sure. “Is he alright?”

“He was wounded, in the fight with the dragon,” Thorin said briskly. “Bofur, what is it?”

Bilbo missed Bofur’s answer as he struggled not to cry out. Whatever Oin was doing hurt like hell.

“Bilbo!” Thorin burst through the tent flap. Outside, Bilbo heard Bofur telling someone he couldn’t go in.

“Quiet!” Oin barked. “Hold him still while I stitch up this muscle. If I’m not careful he could lose use of the wing.”

Warm hands pressed him down against the table, and suddenly he felt better. He turned his head to press against Thorin’s hand, and the dwarf raised his fingers to gently scratch one of his eye ridges.

“Hold him still,” Oin ordered. “This is going to hurt.”

Bilbo hissed in pain and Thorin soothed him with a comforting caress. “Shh, lie still.”

“It hurts,” Bilbo whimpered. “Thorin. It hurts.”

“Shh, be still, _amralime_. It will be over soon.”

“ _What is going on here_?” Someone shouted. Bilbo turned his head and saw Bard standing in the door of the tent. “Is that… that’s a dragon!”

“It’s Bilbo!” Kili and Fili stood together to block Bard’s view of Thorin and Bilbo.

“The _hobbit_?” Bard asked, trying to get past the princes.

“Everyone out!” Oin ordered. “I need quiet!”

The princes herded Bard from the tent, and Bilbo could hear them talking earnestly outside. Thorin held him as Oin finished sewing up the re-opened wound. Even as he worked, Bilbo felt better. The pain faded back to manageable levels, and most of his bleeding wounds closed up.

“There,” Oin said at last. “That’s that. I can’t explain it, but most of what started bleeding again closed up on their own.”

“I… I have an idea,” Ori, who so far had sat unnoticed in the corner, spoke up. “Um. That is, you see, Bilbo heals when Thorin is holding him. And he said Thorin was his life-mate. So, I think that there’s some sort of bond between them, and, whatever it is, it’s healing Bilbo.”

“I…Huh.” Bilbo frowned. “I think…. That’s only supposed to work if it’s reciprocated, though.”

“It is,” Thorin said, and Bilbo looked up at him.

“What?”

“It is, _amralime_.”

Bilbo’s scales shifted to a brighter shade of gold as Thorin’s words sunk in. “It is? I- really? Even though I’m… well, a dragon?”

Thorin chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that Bilbo could listen to all day. “I said nothing would change how I feel about you. I didn’t believe your secret was this big, but I don’t believe you are evil because of what you are. When you spoke about the Dragons of Eru, there was such pain and longing in your voice. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. You nearly gave your life to take back our home. I can’t think of a truer test of character.”

“I thought you’d be mad,” Bilbo said. “I… I thought you’d be furious.”

Thorin chuckled again. “Oh, I _am_ furious. You went into battle without a plan, risking yourself without a thought to those who would be left behind. But about this? You kept your secret for good reason. We will have to have a talk when you are better, but for now I am simply content to know you are alive.”

“I- good. That’s, that’s good.” Bilbo ducked his head and buried it in Thorin’s coat.

“Then if that’s settled, if it’s the bond that’s healing you, Thorin, you’re not to let go of him.” Oin frowned at them until Thorin nodded. “Now, I’m going to get some sleep. Call me if he starts bleeding again.”

No sooner had Oin departed than Bard came in, trailing Fili and Kili. “What is going on here?”

“Bard.” Thorin tightened his grip on Bilbo and turned as if to shield the dragon from the man.

“Why do you have a dragon? Why are you _healing_ it?” Bard demanded, hand on his blade. Fili and Kili drew theirs, and even Ori readied his slingshot.

“ _He_ is our companion, and under our protection,” Thorin said. “If you wish to harm him, you will have to go through me.”

“Thorin.” Bilbo painfully clawed his way up and on to Thorin’s shoulder, where he had a better vantage from which to see the whole tent. “It’s alright. Bard, you know me. I’m the hobbit, Bilbo. We met at the feast in Laketown, you tried to get me to stop the quest.”

“So that was you, fighting Smaug.” Bard’s voice was as hard and cold as his face as he spoke to Bilbo. “Tell me, why would you fight another of your kind? To gain his hoard? To take over the mountain? How long before you kill us too?”

“He’s not my kind,” Bilbo spat, scales darkening to red. “I’m no Uruloki. I don’t kill for spite or for gain. I want nothing inside that mountain. That _thing_ destroyed my people, my family, before yours ever walked this land.”

“Bilbo is the last Dragon of Eru,” Thorin said, lifting a hand to caress Bilbo’s side. The dragon leaned into the touch. “Morgoth created his dragons in mockery of Bilbo’s people, and then used them to destroy them all.”

“I’m supposed to believe that, when I’ve never heard of these ‘Dragons of Eru’?” Bard asked. Bilbo sighed. This was another fight he should have had a plan for.

“Look, if I didn’t want to help, why would I have told you how to kill Smaug?”

“To get the mountain for yourself?” Bard suggested, and Bilbo shook his head. He’d thought Thorin would be the hardest one to convince, and it turned out his dwarf had been the easiest.

“If that were so, why would I be helping Thorin and his people? If all I wanted was the treasure, why would I possibly want to help the dwarves take it back?”

Bard’s frown deepened as he took in Bilbo’s words. “So… you’re not going to kill us all the moment your wounds heal?”

Bilbo laughed, and Thorin joined in with a low rumbling chuckle. “If I were to kill them, I’d be killing myself, master Bard. Thorin is my life-mate. If he dies, so do I.”

“Huh.” Bard sat down on a stool. “That’s… huh.”

“We can relate the whole tale to you,” Thorin said, “but I believe your people need more than ancient history right now. We will, of course, give whatever aid we can.” Bilbo hummed his approval. These people had suffered because of them, albeit indirectly. It was only right they help. “There is shelter in the mountain, and-”

“No!” Bilbo sat up, alarmed, and hissed when the movement pulled at his stitches. “Not the mountain. Thorin, you and the other dwarves especially can’t go in there. Not until Gandalf or I have had the chance to cleanse it. It- I felt it when I went in there. That gold is cursed.”

“Then what do you suggest we do?” Bard asked. “We cannot eat or trade rock. Dale might be made habitable again, but even that will take some time.”

“I… I won’t be able to cleanse it until I’ve recovered,” Bilbo said. “I’ve never done it before, and I only know a little of the theory behind it. Gandalf could do it, but we don’t know where he is. I suppose I could start with small amounts, a chest or two at a time, but…”

“Then we will take only what we need immediately,” Thorin told them. “A small team will go in and remove a few chests of the gold. We can send envoys to my kin in the Iron Hills, they can bring more aid and Dain will be content to wait until the mountain is safe for repayment. As for your people,” he inclined his head towards Bard, “we can assist you in rebuilding Dale.”

“You can’t go in there,” Bilbo said, his claws sinking into Thorin’s coat and scraping on his armor in his agitation. “Thorin, _you_ can’t enter the mountain, not yet.” He didn’t know why he was so afraid of Thorin going in there, but he was. Of all his dwarves, Thorin had the greatest risk of falling to the dragon sickness.

“Be still, _Givashuh_ ,” Thorin ran a soothing hand up and down his side. “I will remain in Dale, with you. I don’t want to expose you to too many people, not until you are strong enough to protect yourself should they fail to listen to reason.”

Bilbo settled, pacified. “Alright then.”

 

They moved to Dale, and set up in one of the houses closest to the great hall. Thorin carried Bilbo in his coat, hiding him from view of human eyes. Only Bard and the people he trusted were allowed into the dwarves’ dwelling, and there they began to plan the restoration of the great city. Within days, the great hall was repaired and being used as an infirmary for the wounded, while the dwarves began shoring up the walls to protect the city from another attack. Bilbo grew stronger with each passing day, and soon they were able to remove his bandages. That night, they celebrated over ale brought from the Iron Hills. Dain and his dwarves joined in the reconstruction efforts with a will, though it was clear they were impatient to be back in Erebor. Thankfully, it only took Bilbo’s explanation of what would happen if they fell to the dragon sickness to keep them from trying to enter the mountain. A few foolish soldiers did try, but they were quickly brought back and firmly chastised. A month passed, and finally Oin pronounced Bilbo fit to fly.

“Really?” Bilbo asked, pleased. It was early morning, and outside the city was just starting to wake up. Thorin sat beside him- it was no longer necessary for them to remain in physical contact, but it felt nice either way. Most days, Thorin could be found with Bilbo draped across his shoulders like a rather strange cat.

“You are completely healed, as far as I can tell,” Oin told him.

“Thank you, Oin,” Bilbo said, and flexed his wings. He tried out two powerful flaps, then launched himself from the bench to circle the room. It was glorious, better than anything he’d ever felt before. Without a second thought, he angled for the window and flew up and out. The few humans already awake and moving about felt him pass but saw only a golden blur speeding away. Up he flew, into the sky, and swooped down again, chasing a raven. The raven squawked it’s indignation and Bilbo sped past it, down to the lake to skim over the water. Back up into the air he went, turning homeward, and paused, hanging in the sky. Something was wrong, there were too many people on the hills surrounding Dale. Then he saw the sun flashing off armor, and knew what it was. He streaked back to Thorin, faster than he had left, tumbling into the window already crying the alarm.

“Army! There’s an army at our gates!”

Thorin grabbed his weapons, rousing the other dwarves, and raced for the walls. Bilbo rode on his shoulder, invisible, and therefore was with him when they reached the gates and saw the elven army spread out below them, Thranduil at it’s head. His instincts screamed at him to jump from Thorin’s shoulders and repel the invaders. This was _his_ home, and armed parties, elven or no, were _not_ welcome. Thorin must have sensed his intent because he lifted a hand and gently pressed down on his back, keeping him in position. Bilbo wrapped his tail around Thorin’s arm and growled.

“Shh,” Thorin said for Bilbo’s ears alone. “They will not harm you.” Then, louder, “Why is there an armed host at our gate? Dale is rebuilding, we barely have enough for ourselves. Nothing worth plundering. The mountain lies yonder, but be warned that gold is cursed and the doors are well protected.”

“By your dragon?” Thranduil answered. “Do not play me for a fool, Thorin Oakenshield. I know what creature you harbor. Call it forth and we will destroy it. Defend it, and we will destroy _you_.”

“You know nothing!” Thorin roared back. “And you will not lay your filthy hands on him, _varudhghalut mahzâyungâl_.”

“Calm down,” Bard strode up to the wall and laid a restraining hand on Thorin’s shoulder. He paused when his hand brushed against Bilbo’s scales, then turned to the elven army. “We mean you no harm, and neither does our … friend. Bilbo is not what you think.”

“You are Bard of Laketown,” Thranduil said, acknowledging the man with a nod. “We have heard of your plight and bring aid, if only you will turn over the dragon to us.”

“Nobody’s turning Bilbo over to anybody,” Kili declared before Bard could answer. “He’s with us.”

“I _can_ speak for myself, you know,” Bilbo said, and faded back into sight. A few of the men and women who had come with Bard to the wall gasped, but nobody from Dale was really all that surprised to see him- he’d spent weeks cooped up in the house, healing, and that had been more than enough time for rumors to circulate about his presence in the city. The same could not be said for the elves, who, as one unit, took a step back and readied their weapons. The dragon rubbed his head against Thorin’s cheek comfortingly, then sprang into the air. One mental twist and a few very strange seconds later, he sat atop the wall, fully clothed, as a hobbit. “Though, I do appreciate the thought,” he added, with a smile for Kili.

“As it so happens,” Bilbo turned to Thranduil and the elves, “I’m not inclined to go anywhere, and I certainly am not going to allow myself to be killed. And to be entirely honest, I’m not even sure you know what I am. You keep calling me “dragon” without a care for what kind of dragon you mean. There are several kinds, you know, and I’m getting rather tired of people making assumptions.” Behind him, someone, maybe Fili, stifled a laugh.

“Enlighten me,” Thranduil bit out, as if the words physically pained him.

“Well, there’s fire-drakes like Smaug, and cold-drakes, were-worms, and long-worms. Those, of course, are all creatures of Morgoth, and therefore servants of the enemy. But there were also the Dragons of Eru, which, if you’ll remember your first-age history, were wiped out by Morgoth and his creatures. Only one survived.”

“And which, pray tell, do you claim to be?” the elvenking asked.

“A Dragon of Eru, of course. Don’t tell me you’ve ever heard of a worm of Morgoth that could change it’s shape and size at will. Excepting were-worms, I suppose, but they can only shift into one other form. Me? I can take any form I want.” To demonstrate, Bilbo stood and shifted to the form of a dwarf, then of an elf, and finally back to a hobbit.

“Ridiculous,” Thranduil declared. “The Dragons of Eru are a myth.”

“A myth that is staring you in the face, _akhrûbabâl zurm_ ” Thorin commented. Both the elves and the defenders of the wall shifted, hands on weapons. Bilbo sighed.

“What Thorin is trying to say is that I’m quite real. And I pose no threat to you or yours, nor will I, so long as _you_ leave Erebor and Dale in peace.”

The twang of a bow alerted Bilbo to Thranduil’s response, even as Thorin swept him off the wall and turned, taking the arrow on his armor. He then shoved Bilbo down behind the wall and drew his sword, roaring in Khuzdul. “ _Imrid amrâd ursul!_ ” Within seconds, all the dwarves in ear-shot readied their weapons and were rushing to the gates. Dain’s army, no doubt ready for a fight, came spilling from the makeshift barracks shouting insults. Even some of the men, those who had been working closest with the dwarves, joined in. Down below, the elves drew their swords.

“STOP!” The shout echoed across the land like thunder, and suddenly Gandalf appeared standing between the city and the elven army. “Lay down your arms!”

“Step aside, Mithrandir,” Thranduil ordered. “I have come to kill the dragon. I will not be stopped.”

“No! He wants to kill Bilbo!” Kili shouted at the same time.

“There are more pressing concerns!” Gandalf declared, glaring at both armies. “There is an army of orcs approaching from the west, stragglers from the battle at Dol Guldur.”

“And you know this, how?” Thranduil asked.

“I just came from the battle, less than a day ahead of them.”

“What are they coming for?” Thorin asked, a hand reaching out to pull Bilbo closer to him.

Gandalf looked up, and met Bilbo’s eyes. “For Bilbo, of course.”

 

“Wait a second, why are they coming for me?” They’d set up a tent outside the city, and currently they were holding a war conference. Thorin, Gandalf, Bard, and Bilbo sat around a table. Thranduil stood against the wall, gazing at all of them with disapproval.

“You destroyed the Ring,” Gandalf said. “Because of you, we were able to destroy Sauron once and for all. Their leader, Azog, knows, and when it became clear that we would win the battle, he ordered his army to retreat. I believe he intends to kill you in return for the destruction of his master.”

For the first time since Gandalf arrived, Thranduil showed interest, standing upright and taking a few steps toward the table. “Do you mean to tell me this… this _thing_ destroyed the One Ring? No dragon on Arda has fire hot enough.”

“I do,” Bilbo said. “Even… even in this form, I do. I can show you, if you like.”

“So, that ring you melted, at Beorn’s house, that was Sauron’s ring?” Kili asked, from his spot at Thorin’s left shoulder. Fili, to his right, looked just as interested.

“It was,” Gandalf confirmed. “I took it to Rivendell, where Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel examined it, and confirmed. We sent a party to take the remains to Mount Doom. They should arrived within a month or so. Your cousin, Bilbo, was one of them.”

“My cousin?” Bilbo frowned at that. “Which one?”

“I thought there was only one of your kind left,” Thorin said, frowning between Bilbo and Gandalf.

“Adopted cousin, actually. My last name, Baggins, well, my whole name really, it’s a hobbit name. When Gandalf left me with them, the Baggins clan sort of adopted me. So… I call them my cousins, and look out for them. Who did you send, Gandalf?”

“Primula,” Gandalf said. “Drogo accompanied her, of course. Along with some of the elves of Rivendell, including Elrond’s daughter and sons. I believe young Estell might have followed them. With Sauron dead, they shouldn’t encounter much danger along the way, but we made sure they were prepared when we sent them.”

“Prim and Drogo…” Bilbo sighed. “Well, if you had to send a hobbit, those two are the two you should send. But if any harm comes to them, so help me, Gandalf…” Bilbo let the threat hang in the air. Prim and Drogo were his favorite “cousins.”

“Can we get back to the matter at hand?” Bard asked, when the silence started to get uncomfortable. “Namely, this orc army and how we’re going to defeat it?”

“I still would like to know why you think we can trust this creature, Gandalf,” Thranduil added, looking down his nose at Bilbo. Bilbo sighed.

“Fine. Here.” He held out a hand towards the elvenking. “Examine me. Look into my soul, if you have to.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin frowned at Thranduil. “Are you certain?” He didn’t know what Bilbo meant by “look into my soul,” but it was clear he didn’t think it was anything good.

“I have to,” Bilbo explained. “We don’t have time to play this game, not with orcs coming.”

Thorin looked to Gandalf, who nodded. Thranduil scowled, and took hold of Bilbo’s hand.

Nothing visible happened. To the rest of the people in the tent, it looked like Thranduil was simply standing there, staring at Bilbo and holding his hand. But for Bilbo, it was like every inch of his soul was being searched. It didn’t hurt exactly, but it didn’t feel good either. He sat, frozen, as the elvenking looked through him, trying to find some evidence that he was a creature of evil. At last, finding none, Thranduil released him. Though painless, it was rather like the extraction of a splinter, or perhaps an arrow being pulled from a wound. The dragon winced and fell off his seat, only to be caught by Thorin and helped up. Instead of returning him to his stool, the dwarf king sat him on his lap and then looked at Thranduil expectantly.

“Fine,” Thranduil bit out, glaring at Bilbo. “I see no taint of the enemy. I still do not trust it, however.”

“You don’t need to trust him, you simply need to work with him,” Gandalf told him. “Or else everyone here will die.”

 

After Thranduil was persuaded to leave Bilbo alone, and also to remain to fight the orcs, they got down to planning the battle. The army was small, and weakened by the resounding defeat at Dol Guldur, but they still outnumbered the humans and dwarves living in Dale. With the elven army, they had a chance, but it would still be a close fight. They had to plan, and plan well, if they were to come out of it alive. There was quite a lot of arguing in the tent that day, and Bilbo soon lost patience with his hard-headed dwarves and the unreasonableness of the elvenking. He developed a kinship of sorts with Bard, and shared many long-suffering glances across the table as Thorin and Thranduil shouted at each other. It was not the most effective battle-planning meeting, but it got done.

The next morning, Bilbo waited with Thorin on the slopes of Erebor. Cat-sized, he had flown scouting missions throughout the night, reporting on the advance of the enemy, and now he waited with his tail wrapped around Thorin’s arm. The numbers of the enemy were far less than they could have been, but Bilbo still worried. Gandalf had gone to request aid from Beorn and the eagles, and the dragon only hoped they made it in time.

“Be still, _amralime_ ,” Thorin said, when Bilbo’s claws accidentally scraped against his armor one too many times. “All will be well.”

“What was that you called me?” Bilbo asked, trying to distract himself. “ _Amralime_?”

“It means my love,” Thorin told him, eyes on the distant hills.

“Oh,” Bilbo felt his scales start to glow with pleasure. “I like it.”

“As do I,” Thorin said, and Bilbo hummed and rubbed his head against Thorin’s cheek. They stood in silence for some time more, before Bilbo’s sharp eyes caught sight of the first ranks of orcs cresting a hill.

“They’re here,” he called, and launched himself from Thorin’s shoulder and into flight. As he flew he grew until he reached full size, just in time to fall flaming on the approaching orcs. Arrows bounced off his hide, falling back onto the archers, as he wheeled around for a second attack. Below, the dwarves and their allies engaged. Now Bilbo had to be careful, to avoid harming one of his own. He flew over the armies, picking off clumps of orcs when he could. It wasn’t the most effective use of his fire, but it was the best he could do without risking allies. When the armies became too mixed to use his flames, the dragon landed and fought with tooth and claw, ripping into the orcs with the ferocity of a lion protecting it’s den.

The rest of the battle passed in a blur of weapons and cries, keeping watch over Thorin and his dwarves, until at last they cornered Azog against the wall of Dale. After the fight against Smaug, fighting Azog was rather anti-climactic. Bilbo drove him into a corner and distracted him, while Thorin gave the final blow. Then, together, they turned to return to the battle, mopping up the remaining orcs. The whole battle, while lasting far longer than the fight with Smaug, turned out to be far less dangerous. The orcs spent most of their energy targeting Bilbo, but his tough hide repelled all but the sharpest blades, and he only sustained minor injuries. It turned out to be a good battle strategy to bring a dragon- the enemy focused on him and was therefore distracted when the allied forces of dwarves, elves, and men fell upon them. Even Thranduil came to appreciate Bilbo’s presence, when he saved his son from an enraged cave-troll.

With the help of Beorn and the eagles, the whole battle was over in several hours, with the dwarves and their allies suffering relatively few losses. Kili was wounded in a fight with Bolg, Azog’s spawn, and Fili suffered a broken ankle from the same fight. Thorin received a nasty head wound from Azog, but once he and Bilbo curled up in the infirmary to wait for Oin to finish with Kili, it began to heal quickly. In a week, all that was left was a scar. As it turned out, the benefits of the bond went both ways, and in time they would find that healing was not the only thing it could do. In the meantime, now that the battle was won and everyone was safe, they turned all their efforts to rebuilding Erebor and Dale, and bringing their people home.

 

 

 

*Allakh - stupid

*Givashuh- my treasure

*Amralime- my love

*varudhghalut mahzâyungâl - pig fucker

*akhrûbabâl zurm - tree shagger

*Imrid amrâd ursul!- Die a fiery death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! If you've got the time, and want to help me out with my next story, please read the question here.
> 
> Ok, so, I'm writing my big fix-it fic, with the help of the absolutely amazing Ashaya T'Reldai, and we've come up with a dilemma. We want to have a definitive word for soulmate in Khuzdul, which.... we can't find. We've been discussing it, and decided to ask for reader input.
> 
> I've seen umùrad’akar (other-soul-part) on Khuzdul4U, but they don't seem too certain about it, and we wanted to try out some other words. We also came up with amrabme (my-soul) or Amlaku-amrabme (half-of-my-soul), if I'm using the Khuzdul right. Ashaya also had the idea to use some Hebrew terms (since Tolkein based Khuzdul on Semitic languages) and we pulled up Zivug, which looks to be something like soulmate, with overtones of destiny. Adding the Khuzdul posessive suffix of -e (or is it -me?) we came up with Zhivagme.
> 
> What we need to know from you all, is which one do you think works best? It's the one I'm going to use in my head-cannon from now on, and I'd really appreciate your input. So, shall we go with umùrad’akar (other-soul-part), amrabme (my-soul), Amlaku-amrabme (half-of-my-soul), or the made-up Zhivagme (my destined soulmate)?
> 
> Also, please feel free to let me know if I've got any of my clunky word-creations wrong- I'm still new to playing with Khuzdul.
> 
> Thanks so much! (And, you're more than welcome to just say something about the story, I love comments as much as I love chocolate (which is a lot!))


End file.
